


Omission, Lies, and False Truths

by Iaiunitas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Possession, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Brothers, Case Fic, Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Castiel Has Mental Health Issues (Supernatural), Castiel and Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester are Jack Kline's Parents, Dean Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Dysfunctional Family, Everyone Has Issues, Family, Gen, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury, It Gets Worse, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Jack Feels, Jack Kline Needs A Hug, Jack Kline Whump, Jack learns about the Trauma, Mental Health Issues, Michael Possessing Dean Winchester, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Past Torture, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Protectiveness, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Sam being self destructive, Season/Series 14, Team as Family, Torture, Trauma, Trauma From Lucifer's Cage (Supernatural), Whump, basically everyone needs hugs and therapy, headcanons abound, people need to tell Jack things, realistic hunting violence, sam is a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27815014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iaiunitas/pseuds/Iaiunitas
Summary: In the wake of Lucifer's death, with Dean missing, Sam falling apart, and Cas struggling to keep everyone together, Jack realizes there are a lot of things he doesn't know about the Winchesters and Cas. Things he should know. Things he's going to fight to learn. S14 AU. (No slash, no smut)
Relationships: Castiel & Jack Kline, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jack Kline & Dean Winchester, Jack Kline & Sam Winchester, team free will as family
Comments: 43
Kudos: 98





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I write long chapters. Don't expect me to apologize about it. ;)
> 
> Parings: None.
> 
> Warnings: PTSD, torture, past torture, cage trauma, hell trauma, some violence, black market organ selling, mental health issues, self harm; some language. No slash, no smut, no non-con/rape. Further needed warnings will be posted at the top of chapters.
> 
> Disclaimer: No.
> 
> Set: Beginning of S14
> 
> Note: Cross-posted on A03 under the same penname.

* * *

_I didn't know._

_I didn't understand._

_Why didn't anyone tell me!?_

* * *

His hands are slick as they hold the tablet, making his grip a desperate fumble. He adjusts so he's using both hands at either end because he's afraid that he's going to drop it if he doesn't. And then it will just be something else he's broken the last few weeks, and the idea of presenting the ruptured device to Castiel or Sam makes his stomach churn.

Jack purses his lips together, breathing out slowly through his nose, trying to remind himself why he's here. Why he's standing in the kitchen doorway, trying not to feel like an idiot as he fills up the space, hands clenched and body stiff.

Mary, without her jacket for the first time in days, looks up from the fridge she's scouring for the last remains of any food. Someone needs to do another grocery haul, but Sam has yet to delegate that for the week—handing out the money from wherever he wrestles it from the skies—and dinner will probably be another loot from the Bunker's dwindling military-like food supply. Jack doesn't like it. The texture is rough and gets stuck in his teeth, and it often tastes like what he imagines gnawing on wet cardboard would.

But he's not in the position to be complaining—Sam doesn't need any more complaints, least of all from _him—_ so he's kept his lips firmly pressed together about his opinion, even if he's silently longed for the days where food was an option, not a requirement. His chest aches dully, as if in reminder of that.

"Jack?" Mary says his name like a question, hand on the top of the fridge's door. Jack's fingers tighten around the tablet. "Is something wrong?"

That, Jack supposes, depends on how you define the question.

"No." He reassures quickly, pulling his lips up. The smile doesn't feel sincere, and trying harder will only make it worse, so he lets the awkward attempt hang on his face. "No, nothing's wrong. I just…" he lifts up the tablet as best he can with two hands clasped around it. "I think I've found a case."

He watches her expression carefully. Green eyes are tired, and her face pallid with exhaustion. She looks more sleep-deprived than she ever did in Michael's world. Jack understands. Helping with the rebellion was relatively straightforward. It wasn't enjoyable, but it was simple. With Dean missing and the mess that has become the Bunker and the rebels, there aren't any obvious solutions or an escape.

Mary looks worn: stretched in six different directions, but only capable of holding onto one.

And, as Jack watches, her lips downturn, pulling tight against her teeth. It's not frustration, but long-suffering might be a better term. His stomach sinks a little, and he feels like an idiot. Why, he wonders, did he think this was a good idea? The last thing anyone wants to focus on right now is a hunt. But leads for Dean have run dry and emptied out into a barren basin, and Jack doesn't know what else to do.

How he's supposed to help.

He was far more useful to everyone when he had his powers.

Maybe they'd have found Dean by now if he did. Maybe then Castiel wouldn't be ready to murder someone, and Sam prepared to help him bury evidence of the crime. Mary wouldn't look so tired, and the rebels wouldn't be strained and so confused. Jack wouldn't be so _useless._

"Jack," Mary's voice is patient, "are you really sure that's the best thing right now?"

Well, he was _before._ Now he's not so sure.

Absently, the knuckle of his right thumb finds his sternum, and rubs against the mostly-healed stab. It throbs dully, but is without the fiery ache anymore. A part of him is disappointed at this. Pain is a good distraction.

"I thought it might be good to focus on something else," Jack explains, swallowing back the urge to retreat. Mary's disapproval pulls on something inside him. "We're no closer to finding D—Michael"—he never knows what name to use anymore, and his mouth awkwardly runs the two together as he tries to correct it—"than we were three weeks ago. It's only a few hours from here."

He thinks. Directions still evade him, despite Google's attempts to help.

Mary releases the fridge, letting it click shut. Her stance is open, but her expression is not. She's quiet for a long moment before she releases her lips and sighs, folding her arms across her chest. "Show me."

Jack steps into the kitchen, crossing the distance between them. His steps feel loud and echoing in the quiet of this room. Most of the Bunker is filled with people now, and though Jack isn't exactly fond of the sudden forced socialization, the sound has been somewhat calming. Proof of life, he supposes.

He steps onto the other side of the counter, and relinquishes his hold on the tablet. His fingers hurt from how tightly he'd had it clenched. He opens the device and slides it across the countertop towards her. Mary takes it, scanning through the article in a way that almost makes her seem bored. "Vamps?" she guesses, eyes still on the words.

Jack brightens slightly. It's what he concluded as well. "I think so." He agrees. "The coroner said that the throats were slashed open. The police are saying it's a wild animal. They think it's a cougar."

Mary scrolls, then stops on the news photos, and presses on one. Green eyes tighten around the edges. "Cougars have five claws, not four. And those marks are a little wide for a mountain lion."

"I agree," Jack says. He'd had to look up a cougar before he made that assessment, though. He's not sure he's actually seen one before. Wolves yes, along with a handful of other wild animals in the forest of Michael's world.

Before Mary can say that it looks more like werewolves, or literally anything else with claws, Jack points towards the image of the body she's staring at, and explains, "The body was drained of eighty percent of the blood. It's why she's so pale. But her heart was untouched."

Mary's eyes follow his finger. Her frown doesn't shift. She looks up at him. "So it's some vamps." Her lower lip worries between her teeth. She sets the tablet down, and Jack feels his heart sink with the device when she seems no more enthralled than she did earlier. Jack rocks his weight from his heels, trying to balance his disappointment out. "What do you want to do about it?"

Her question gives him pause.

The answer, to him, is rather obvious.

"Hunt...them?" Jack says the words with a waver, and feels slightly ridiculous. His thumb knuckle comes up to rub at the stab wound again.

"Jack," Mary sighs. He hates it when people sigh his name. "I appreciate the thought—and it was a good one—I just...don't think we're ready for this. Not yet."

An answer pops out before he can stop it, "So sitting around, waiting for a lead on De—Michael is better? It's been thirty-six days. I can't sit around here anymore. I need to do something."

Jack inwardly winces. There it is. His admittance. This isn't for them as much as it is for him. He rubs at the wound harder, until he manages to elect a slight twinge from himself. He's pushing up against his sternum now, thumb knuckle to bone.

Mary's brow furrows, and she looks at him in a contemplative way. Most everyone's has been cursory over the last week, and the intensity of her stare makes him draw back a little. The Winchester's hand reaches out, and her fingers gently encircle his right wrist, pulling his arm back. Jack lets her, privately relishing in the contact. "Jack," her tone is soft, "don't do that."

 _But I need to,_ he almost blurts. _It helps me focus._

He flexes his fingers out, looking anywhere but her face. "I'm sorry." He whispers. He's not sure, exactly, what he's apologizing for. The hunt, the rubbing, Dean, Michael or anything and everything else. _This entire thing is my fault,_ he thinks with force, and feels the weight of that settle against his shoulders again. If he hadn't been so stupid, so naïve...

Mary releases a breath, letting him go. He drops his hand, letting it settle on the countertop, next to the tablet. "Just don't do it again."

He can't make that promise, so he doesn't.

He looks at the tablet, and his lips push together with discomfort and mild despondency. It had seemed like such a good idea when he'd started. But Mary's probably right. Sam has stressed the importance of being mentally stable when hunting, something Jack notices he and Dean don't always adhere to, but the point still stands. None of them are really in the position to pull this off safely. But he still…

Mary's staring at him. He can feel the weight of her gaze, though he doesn't lift his own up to meet it. "Why don't you help me round up something for dinner? We don't have much in the fridge—" they never do anymore "—and it's probably going to be a hunt to find something that will make it past the gag reflex."

The attempt at humor only makes his lips twitch up, as if it's a muscle memory, but little else.

"Okay." Jack agrees, snaking a hand out to rest flat on the tablet and drag it toward himself. "I can do that." He folds the black cover of the device over the screen, and Mary turns to make for the hall when she stops suddenly.

Jack lifts his gaze up, and sees Sam staggering in through the doorway. His clothing is the same pair as yesterday's—blue flannel, long sleeve tan undershirt, jeans and a pair of boots that he probably slept in, if he bothered to lay down. His hair is falling in front of his eyes, and the beard Mary has been half-heartedly trying to get him to shave has yet to meet its maker. Sam's skin is pale and stretched. He looks feverish, or well on his way to developing a serious illness. Eyes rimmed with shadows and red. The intensity of emotion in them makes Jack's stomach hurt.

Jack's gaze flicks away, suddenly desperate for another target to his stare.

"Sam?" Mary asks. Her voice is slightly uncertain. Jack has noticed, since they got back, that Mary does that. Holds herself with an unsteadiness around Sam. It bothers him, but he's never been brave enough to ask. "Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah, no, I'm fine." Sam says, running a hand through his messy hair. A flicker of a smile tries to pull on his lips, but his eyes are filled with so many shadows it holds little meaning.

Jack presses his lips together harder. His hand shifts up unconsciously.

"Sorry, I just...was hoping to get away from the crowd. I, uh, didn't realize anyone was in here. I can leave." Sam says it sincerely, but Jack thinks if he tries to go anywhere he's probably going to collapse. His observations, Jack doubts, will be well received, so he says nothing, and stands there like a child, holding his tablet and hoping he's invisible.

"No, it's fine, we were just about to leave," Mary assures, "why don't you sit down?"

Sam nods, then moves for the table, and all but falls face-first into a chair. He winces slightly, hand shifting unconsciously to his stomach, but his face smooths out just as quickly, fingers clenching on the tabletop. He looks terrible. _He wouldn't_ , a soft, slinking voice whispers in the back of his head, _if you hadn't gotten Dean possessed._

Jack rubs his thumb against the wound. The pain is a reminder, and offers a modicum of relief.

Mary hesitates, then moves toward the table. She stands next to it as if gathering words together, hands crossed over her chest. "You were talking to Nick again." It's not a question.

Sam's eyes flit away. Jack's stomach twists with discomfort. Ever since they realized his father's vessel wasn't dead, Sam has taken it upon himself to see to the man's recovery, almost like it's penance for something.

It would have been easier, Jack guesses, if Castiel had actually had the ability to heal archangel blade wounds. But time has dragged the healing process, and his own injury was, for all intents, fairly shallow and still hasn't knit itself together fully. Nick has barely gotten back to his feet as of two days ago, and still has a bit of distance to go before he can actually get anywhere. somewhere.

And despite that, Sam always leaves any encounter with him pale and shaky. A hidden terror. As if Nick spent the entire conversation slicing Sam open with a knife and laughing.

Jack doesn't like it, but his protests fall on deaf ears.

And Sam is getting worse. Jack doesn't know if it's because of Nick's presence, Dean's absence, or something else, but the hunter has lost weight and his hands keep shaking. Anxiety, Google told him, because Jack was afraid they wouldn't tell him if he asked.

There's a lot of things they won't tell him. About angel possession, about Nick—anything about his father, for that matter. Even after... _after._ Jack shakes the thoughts off. The bitterness of them makes him uncomfortable, and feel weirdly tainted.

"Sam." Mary sighs his name like a threat.

Sam's eyes snap up to her, "He needs help, Mom."

" _You?"_

Sam's head cants forward, frustrated. He almost looks like he wants to laugh. "Who else will? Michael's rebels? Cas? You can't even look at him."

 _I'd take it,_ Jack thinks, _but you won't even let me talk to him. Not that you'll say why._

Mary's jaw bunches up. "He's not our responsibility. We got him on his feet, we can just dump him at an asylum. Guy gives me the creeps."

Sam shakes his head, like this is a conversation they've had before and the outcome is no different. Mary's lips press into a hard line. Jack's fingers fidget on the tablet, suddenly feeling like an intruder. His thumb rubs harder into his chest, and he winces. The action seems to remind Sam that he's here, because the Winchester's heavy eyes lift up to him.

"Jack. Is something wrong?" Why does everyone keep asking him that? A question must show on his face, because Sam tips his head in the direction of the tablet. "You look like you're about to snap that."

Jack's gaze flicks down, and he realizes he is, in fact, gripping it tight enough to break it if he applies any more pressure. He eases up, and tries for another smile. Nothing's felt very sincere since that night. Almost as if a part of him died along with his father. He doesn't understand it, but he can't fight it. "Oh." Jack intones, "It wasn't intentional."

That doesn't seem to reassure either Winchester in the slightest. After a moment, Mary's fingers drum against her arm, then she turns to Sam and releases a short breath. "Jack found a case. Probably a vamp in Colorado."

As far as discreet attempts to change the subject go, that one isn't high on the list for Jack.

Sam's eyebrows raise. "Okay."

His stomach hurts. It's clenching in anticipation. Jack bites on the inside of his cheek. Tablet pressed. _Don't crack it,_ he reminds himself, loosening.

Mary frowns, but says, "I think you should go." Jack feels mild confusion wash through him at her sudden change of opinion.

Sam's shoulders drop a fraction. "I can't. With Michael's rebels here, and Dean still out there...I need to be here." His hand tightens, knuckles pressing into the table with force. "Maybe you and Jack should take it. It would be good, for both of you, to get out of here for a little bit."

Stir crazy, Jack believes the term is.

"I'm okay." Mary says. It's almost as if the appearance of Sam has completely changed the woman's mind. Jack watches her from the corner of his vision. He doesn't blame her. It's just...confusing. "We can handle things for a bit. Take Jack, find Castiel, and get him out of here before he kills someone."

Or, Jack thinks with growing pessimism, someone kills _him._ He was there, in Michael's world. He knows that it was kill or be killed against the angels, but Sam and Mary have both had to diffuse a fight before someone stabbed Castiel in the face with an angel sword.

Sam huffs, but doesn't look convinced. Mary's hand twitches by her side, like she wants to touch him, but isn't sure if it would be well received. "Sam."

He lifts up his hand in slight surrender. "Okay." His gaze slides to Jack, "I'll find Cas. Meet us at the Impala in twenty."

The sudden release of tension in his abdomen almost makes him hunch forward. He nods, hand straying towards the area subconsciously, pressing flat. "Okay. I'll do that." He promises, mind already slipping towards what he needs to pack and trying to remember where he stuffed the duffle bag inside his room.

Sam gets to his feet, hand braced against the table. An edge of a grimace lingers in his eyes, but it's gone so quickly Jack's fairly certain he imagined it. Sam's shoulders roll, then he inhales and exits the room, footfalls silent as he makes his way down the hall. It's something that Jack has had to get used to since his father took his powers. He can't sense anyone arriving anymore, and most everyone here is so quiet he's been startled more than a dozen times by their sudden presence.

Jack turns to Mary, tone accusatory even though he doesn't mean for it to be. "You said it wasn't a good idea."

Mary pulls her lips apart with effort, casting him a side-eyed glance. "I still don't think it is."

"Then why…?" Jack's brow furrows.

"Because you're right. He needs a distraction, and so do you. Everyone does, I think. I don't know what else to do." Mary rubs at her forehead, stress etched into her frame. Jack feels the need to comfort, but doesn't know what to say. "You should go pack," she says after a second, "we'll be fine."

Everyone keeps saying that.

Jack has yet to believe them.

000o000

Jack steps in the garage fifteen minutes later, recently re-found duffel bag in hand, feeling like he's forgotten something. Sam and Castiel are waiting for him next to the Impala, silent; standing side by side. Castiel looks fractionally more put together than the last time Jack saw him this morning, but the tension that's in his frame has yet to depart.

Both look at him as he approaches, gazes sliding away from wherever. Jack chews on the inside of his lip, lifting up the tablet. "I thought you might want to find the directions yourself. The article I found is there as well." He hands the device to Sam, who nods and flips open the cover. Jack loads his duffel bag beside Sam's in the trunk, then pulls it closed with a creak of metal.

Castiel smiles tightly at him. "Are you ready?"

No, is what he thinks, but "yes," is what he says.

Sam fishes out a set of keys from the pocket of his jacket, handing them to Castiel almost absently. Jack watches the exchange, brow drawing together. He knows that Castiel can drive, and he's also aware that he learned to do so in the Impala, but he's never actually seen Castiel _drive_ it. Sam willingly relinquishing the keys when Dean isn't there strikes him as odd.

Castiel, apparently feeling the same, lifts an eyebrow, gaze levelling on the youngest Winchester with solicitude. Sam catches the stare from the corner of his eye, and looks briefly irritated. "I'm fine. I just need to focus on this. Someone's gotta pull up the police report before we get there, and I can't do that and drive."

That makes sense. So why, Jack wonders with a familiar twist of apprehension, does it feel like a lie?

"Of course." Castiel agrees with skepticism. But he moves towards the driver's side without a word, and pulls the door open anyway. Jack clambers inside of the back, hands clenching across his knees, breathing in the scent of vinyl, gun oil, and Sam and Dean.

Sam enters last, movements stiff. He sets Jack's tablet down between Castiel and himself, pulling the passenger door closed as he relinquishes his phone from his jacket. As he types in an address, Castiel turns the ignition and the Impala roars to life, humming in a familiar rhythm. "Looks like I-70 would be the fastest route, it's just outside of Colorado Springs." Sam says after a moment. "It's about six hours from here."

Castiel gives a nod of acknowledgement. Then he turns around in the seat to guide the Impala from the garage with an ease that belies Jack. He's always wondered what it would be like to drive, and though Sam promised to teach him, that was before Jack got stuck in Michael's world, and it has yet to happen. Jack's starting to think it won't.

Castiel pulls out of the Bunker onto the familiar dusty road between them and Lebanon, and Jack worries his lower lip between his teeth and prepares himself for the long wait. Jack watches with vague interest as Sam pulls out his laptop, takes out his phone to connect his computer to the cell's data, then begins the process of hacking into the Colorado Springs police department. The sound of the keyboard clacking is the only one besides the hum of the Impala for a while.

Jack turns his head to the window and watches the miles pass by.

Roads, he's noticed the last few weeks, are far quieter when Dean isn't here. Neither Sam or Castiel are overly talkative on their own, seeming to prefer communicating telepathically—especially as of late—and while neither are opposed to music, Jack has never been fond of Dean's cassette collection. Not that he'd admit it, even at pain of death.

For once, though, he's grateful for the silence. It gives him time to think about the questions swirling in his head. Time to sort them, prioritize...and try to figure out how to phrase them.

 _They won't answer,_ a part of him reminds, failed attempts over weeks evidence to this. _They'll evade and evade, and you'll keep going in circles._

But he has to know.

If he pushes hard enough, something has to give.

...Doesn't it?

It's somewhere after an hour that Jack finally pulls his gaze away from the freeway, and leans forward a little. Sam is looking over a coroner's report, and has some rather nasty closeups of the wound on his laptop screen. Jack inwardly grimaces, but pulls his gaze to the dashboard, because it's a neutral zone.

He clears his throat, the noise feeling like a discharge of a bullet inside the silence. "I have a question."

Sam tenses, but Castiel doesn't. He glances back at Jack, even though he probably shouldn't. "Okay," the angel says after a moment. "What?"

"When we find Michael...what are we going to do?" Now he has their attention. Sam twists around slightly to look back at him, expression a relaxed promise of death. Jack glances at Castiel, but it's not much better. The optimism Castiel has sprouted is a careful façade, one that Sam stopped bothering to maintain a while ago. Sam hasn't said anything outwardly, but Jack hears him talking with Mary sometimes. The hopelessness.

"What do you mean?" Sam asks, patient.

"He's an archangel," Jack points out, hands fidgeting "and Dean is his true vessel. Are we just...hoping Michael's going to let him go if we ask nice enough?" There's a stutter in Castiel's expression, and Jack barely represses a wince. "Is there any way to remove an angel from a vessel without the vessel saying no?"

Silence.

"There's a...device," Sam says carefully, "that we used to pull Lucifer from the President. Ketch was working down leads in London, but he's not having much luck."

"The President. Of the United States? When was my father possessing the _President?"_ Jack asks, honestly confused. He remembers something vaguely like this coming up in passing, but details evade him.

Sam's eyebrows raise a little, as if surprised Jack hadn't heard this story before. "When he and your mom…"

"Oh." Jack frowns, going back to worrying his lip between his teeth. A pang of loss shoots through his chest at the thought of Kelly, but he brushes it to the side. He's getting used to her absence, even though she was all he knew for a long time.

"We'll figure out what to do about Michael after we find Dean," Castiel says, carefully curbing the subject. "But all the leads we've tried have led us to nothing."

He knows. Castiel staggered back from another dead end two days ago, and Sam this morning. And while they were out looking for Dean, Jack was here, getting his butt handed to him by Bobby, and being pointless. He misses his powers. He misses a lot of things. Innocence is one of those.

He rubs at his stab wound with the pads of his fingers subconsciously.

"So you don't have a plan?" Jack confirms.

Sam and Castiel share a long look. It's one of those telepathic things again, the ones that Jack can never read right. Sam, Castiel, and Dean have it down to an art. It annoys him. He wishes they would just say what they mean instead of implying it with facial expressions.

"No," Castiel surmises after a moment. "I guess not."

Okay. It's not the most encouraging news, but at least he knows. Jack frowns, and leans back in the seat. He doesn't try his hand at any more questions.

000o000

He falls asleep after hour two, head slumped against the window. He didn't use to feel this tired all the time before his grace was taken, and even though Castiel has promised it will regenerate with time, he can't feel it. Just so utterly human.

He wakes up to Sam shaking his shoulder and saying his name. His touch is light and feathery, but freezing in a way that Jack has never found comforting, and privately reminds him of his father's. He blinks his eyes open sluggishly until the images he's seeing form into one picture. They're parked. Castiel has pulled his tie taut, and Sam is in a suit. In front of them is a small blue house, with the last name Rankin on the mailbox.

The victim's family.

He sits up a little straighter. "Why didn't you wake me sooner? Should I get my suit—?"

"No," Sam interrupts, pulling his hand back. Jack's shoulders fall, anticipating a _you're staying here,_ but Sam adds without prompting, "We'll just say you're job shadowing us. Me and Dean used to do it with our dad. They'll ignore you that way."

Which he's not sure is entirely beneficial, but he keeps his mouth shut, and nods.

Castiel eyes him in the mirror, but Jack shoves open the door and stumbles out into the fresh air before he can be pinned with a question. Colorado Springs is slightly warmer than Lebanon, at least in early April. He's not, however, regretting his decision to wear a jacket.

Castiel and Sam exit the car after him, the latter gripping onto the door with more intensity than Jack thinks is probably warranted. Sam's hands, he notices, are trembling faintly.

 _Are you okay_ lingers on his lips, but never makes it further.

Sam strides up towards the door, and Castiel is quick to step into pace beside him. Jack trails behind them, stuffing his hands inside his pockets. Sam knocks. It's almost a minute before Jack hears shuffling inside of the house, and a few more seconds before the door is opened and a tall, pretty black woman in her early twenties stands in front of them.

Sam's flipping open his FBI badge while Castiel is still pulling his own out. "Hi, I'm Agent Jacobs, this is my partner Agent Stilinski." He thumbs in Jack's direction. "That's Harry Willows. Ignore him. He's shadowing us for today. We're here for Amber's death, are you family?"

 _Harry Willows_. Jack sears the name into his mind so he'll respond to it if called for.

The woman nods, "She's my sister. I'm staying here with our mom. We already talked to the police…"

"I know," and Sam's voice has dropped, sympathetic. "And we don't have any desire to drag you through it again, we just have a few questions. It shouldn't take more than a few minutes."

Amber's sister's lips pull into a frown, but she sighs and nods, stepping outside. "Can we do this out here? I finally got Mama to settle down."

Castiel nods. "That's fine."

Amber's sister grabs hold of a necklace hanging around her neck, gently spinning it. "They said Amber died of an animal attack. Does the FBI hunt down wild cougars in your spare time?" Jack thinks it was supposed to be funny, but none of them laugh.

"Actually, we think Amber's death may have been one in a string of murders down a few States." Sam says smoothly, lies falling from his tongue with such ease Jack presses his lips together in discomfort. "Fits our killer's MO, unfortunately. Hides his deaths behind what look like animal attacks."

Amber's sister's eyes widen, and she lifts up a hand to her mouth.

"Did she talk with anyone before she died you thought was suspicious? Anyone that you didn't think to mention to the police?" Sam asks.

"I, uh," the woman tightens her hand around the necklace. "I'm not sure. She's fifteen years older than me, so we were never really close, y'know? I know that her husband worked at an accounting firm, but it was never really that successful. I can't imagine why anyone would want to kill her." Her voice cracks at the end, and her eyes water.

Jack smooths down the side of his jacket, uncomfortable. Not sure what to do.

"It's okay," Sam promises with patience, resting a hand on her shoulder, "take your time."

Jack didn't cry at his father's death. He shed some tears for Kelly in private, but he didn't cry when Dean stabbed his father through the side; blade in one end, out the other. Everything happened so quickly, but not fast enough. There was the blade, then the pain of it pressing into him, then Dean and the bright light then nothing.

His father tried to connect with him. That felt _real._ And Jack didn't cry when he died. He wasn't relieved, exactly, and he didn't laugh like Sam did. He just…

He didn't feel much of anything.

Should he have? Amber's sister barely knew her, but she's still shedding tears. What does that say about him that he didn't?

"...acting strange?" Castiel is saying, and Jack forces his eyes up, trying to pay better attention. He doesn't know how long he zoned out for, but Sam is eyeing him. His face heats. This case was his idea. The least he can do is try to put some effort into it.

Amber's sister is shrugging. Sam removed his hand, but now she's wrapping her arms around her stomach and looking unhappy. "He's not abusive, or anything. He's a good guy, one of the best I know. And Amber would've left him, or I would've murdered him if he was, it's just...the last time I saw him, he was kind of..."

"Irritable?" Sam offers.

"Yeah." The woman nods, black curls bouncing in front of her face. She worries her lower lip between her teeth, "He just didn't seem like himself. And," she frowns, face flushing slightly. "The police laughed at me when I told them this, but...I could've sworn he smelled like rotting eggs. Death, y'know? Like he hadn't showered in a while."

Sulfur.

Jack's stomach sinks with slight disappointment.

_Oh._

This isn't a vampire. But he'd been so _sure..._

"Okay," Castiel says, sharing a look with Sam, "thank you for your time, Abby, you've been very helpful."

They start to back away, but Abby calls after them, "Wait! You don't think that Henry did this to Amber, do you? He just needed a bar of soap, but I don't think he'd kill anyone."

Sam looks back at her, "Right now we're not sure what we believe. Amber could've been killed by anyone, but we'll take your opinion into consideration. Thank you for your time, ma'am."

Then they walk down the sidewalk back toward the Impala, and clamber inside. Sam still doesn't take the drivers side, and no one comments. Jack leans forward as soon as they're settled and Castiel has started the engine. "Possession?"

"Looks that way," Sam agrees, "there's a cow farm a few miles south of here that was all dead. Weather's cloudy."

All signs, Jack knows, pointing to demonic possession.

"Now we just need to find Henry. Who is missing. And hasn't been seen for days, despite his wife's death." Castiel says, sighing softly to himself. "This won't take any time at all."

000o000

There isn't time to do much else today. The hour was late when they got started, and by the time they've left Abby in the distance, it's after eight p.m. Not early enough to turn in for the night, but not leaving much time to do any serious investigation. The most they can do is find a motel room, huddle in for a night of research, and wait.

This, Jack has long-since decided, is his least favorite part of hunting. He prefers the action, the chase, and the blood pumping in his veins. He wasn't designed to wait. It serves him little purpose beyond to heighten anxiety and spur a restless feeling in his legs.

Sam finds the only motel in the small town via phone. It's next to a gas station and looks like it's on the last dregs of life. The paint is old and peeling, the windows don't look like they've been cleaned in decades and when they step into the space, the overhead light flickers ominously then begins to buzz fervently.

"Great," Sam sighs.

"I've seen you stay in worse," Castiel offers, but it doesn't seem to be much of a platitude as it is an acknowledgement, because the angel's lip is curled up in faint distaste. Jack inhales, nose wrinkling at the thick smell of dust and faint body odor. He wonders when the last time anyone stayed here was. Jack didn't get the key, so he doesn't know if the clerk was surprised to see them.

Sam's lips press together and he moves for the couch. It's one of the few pieces of furniture beyond the two beds and the small table that's listing toward the left on a tattered leg. Sam tosses his duffle bag onto the floor and sinks onto the faded red cushion with a small grunt.

Jack frowns, letting his own duffle drop to the floor beside the end of one bed. Castiel shuts the door behind them, and tosses the keys onto the table. "Sam," the angel says without prompting. The hunter doesn't look up from where he's digging out his laptop from the well-worn leather case. "Take a bed. I don't sleep."

Jack didn't used to. He didn't realize what an inconvenience his body's need to shut down was before. Sam and Dean had never made much of a fuss about it, so he didn't realize how exhausted they must have been all the time before his father's death. Now he knows. He shares it; for all the good it does him.

"I'm okay," Sam says, flipping up the laptop screen, "I've got to pull up the traffic records anyway, and run Charlie's facial recognition software—"

Castiel grabs the back of the screen, and Sam looks up at him, finally giving the angel his full attention. There's an edge of wariness on his face, discomfort, maybe. Jack's eyes squint, and his lips pull against his teeth. "The excuses you are lying with are bountiful, but I'm not an idiot. Don't try me." Castiel's frustration is clear. Short patience, short temper. Everyone has been a battle-zone these last few weeks. He can only tiptoe so far before he accidentally detonated something.

What would it be like to be that direct? To just _say_ something like that?

"Cas…" Sam blows out the name between his teeth.

"Sam."

"I can't—"

"I am just as apt at running a computer program as you are." Castiel's tone brokers little room for argument. The two hold a stare for a long moment, and for a second, Jack's afraid they're about to descend into an actual, physical fight. They don't. Sam looks away, and Castiel softens some. "Get some sleep."

Sam closes his eyes for a moment, heavy shadows looking worse and deeper against his face. Sam shakes his head, then gets up to his feet, handing the laptop to Castiel. He catches Jack's eye for a second, but pulls his gaze away just as quickly. Undoing the tie, and removing the suit coat, Sam collapses against the creaky bedframe with a plume of released air.

Jack feels his frown deepen.

But he doesn't know what to do. So he doesn't do anything, and gravitates towards Castiel, not ready to commit to sleep yet. Castiel has taken Sam's abandoned seat and is typing something into the keyboard. His speed is nowhere near as fast or familiar as Sam's is, but he's still making progress.

Jack sits down next to him, letting his arms fold across his legs. The urge to speak is on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. Castiel is scowling faintly, and conversation might prevent Sam from sleeping. He rubs the pads of his fingers against his elbows, settling in for silent watch. But the quiet eats at him, gnawing at any sense of calm he's been faking, and leaving him jittery and wary.

After some difficulty, but much less than Jack would have, Castiel pulls up the traffic cameras. He then goes to the files loaded onto the computer and opens up a program. Jack watches him find a picture of Amber's husband—Henry, wasn't it?—and run it through the two programs. It lags. Jack's brow draws together, glancing once at Castiel in confusion.

In movies, whenever this is done, it's often faster than a finger snap. Maybe a few seconds of loading. Not...this.

"It's processing the data." Castiel explains in a whisper. "This might take well upwards to an hour. Charlie was a genius, but the accuracy is costly. There was only so much she could do. You should get some sleep, Jack; I don't know when you'll get another opportunity."

Jack shakes his head, feeling strangely guilty. "I slept in the car. I'm okay."

Castiel looks over at him. His face makes something inside of Jack flinch back. It's easy to forget, too easy Jack has found, that Castiel is not human. The sense of otherworldly and power that Jack used to find comfort in now only makes him cringe and feel an urge to panic. He'll never understand how Sam and Dean, who have always been human, could fathom to give this being a _nickname._

"Jack," Castiel's voice is trying to be patient, "you don't need to set yourself on fire."

The expression gives him pause, but he thinks he understands the meaning. He presses his lips together, hands clenching around his triceps for a moment. "I can help." He protests weakly. _Let me help. Let me do something. Please._

Castiel rests a hand on his shoulder. His skin isn't warm, because angels don't have body heat, but it's not cold either. "I know. But you don't need to. I'll wake you if I come across anything."

Jack pauses, feeling stupid, but asking anyway, "Promise me?"

Castiel's head quirks slightly. "Yes. I promise."

Jack gets up. He doesn't change clothing, simply crawls onto the other bed, not even bothering to remove his shoes. The blanket is thin and rubs against his skin in a way that makes him overly sensitive to its touch. He lays on his side and awkwardly maneuvers his hand until he's not pulling at the stab anymore. Although it's a familiar sleeping routine since his father's death, it's still not enjoyable. It takes him a bit of shifting before he can finally settle.

He lays awake for a long time, listening to himself breathe, Castiel shift or tap against the keys on occasion, and Sam's soft, but strained exhalations. He lays still, but awake, for so long he doesn't think he's going to sleep, but he must have because he becomes aware of the fact he's dreaming.

He's standing inside of a massacre. A town that Michael smote, and they'd been too late to save. Jack never learned why they'd been killed. The rebels were such a small group, but those that didn't resist—they were often left alone. These people died smiling. Their eyes burned out of their sockets, bodies strewn over furniture, the floor, and each other, but faces in such peace it was unsettling. Almost as if they were grateful to have given their lives.

Agony and panic would have been better.

Jack's standing in a pile of bodies, blood everywhere. The walls. Floor. _Him._ He's alone here, his breaths echoing.

He's holding a blade. It's not a silver angel sword, but something closer to the archangel blade that his father had. The one he stabbed himself with. The one that Sam gave him to kill him with. He knows he's supposed to do something with it, but what escapes him entirely.

Jack turns slowly, blinking, trying to make sense of what he's seeing. Sam and Dean—no, Michael—are standing there, and Michael's hand is shoved through Sam's chest. The hunter's face is white, lips pushed apart in wordless agony. Jack stands, utterly frozen, blade in hand, as the archangel yanks back sharply and withdraws Sam's still-beating heart inside a fist.

Sam collapses bonelessly without a sound.

When Michael turns to face him, his expression is filled with horror. It's not Michael. It's Dean, holding his brother's sluggishly pumping heart and staring at Jack. Sam twitches on the ground, but it's death throes. "How could you do this to me?" Dean whispers. His voice is so soft it's barely audible, but it pierces Jack to his soul.

_This is his fault._

_If he hadn't been so trusting…_

_So gullible._

But that connection, that urge to bond— _that had felt real._ Sincere. His father's interest, his care, when he gripped Jack's shoulders. All of that, that had felt _sincere._ He's sure. He's _sure._ He can't get the two to align in his head. What everyone warned him of, versus what he was shown. And yet. There was no hesitation. When Jack refused, when he had served his purpose, it was over.

Dean's eyes are haunted. Blood bubbles from his lips and his irises flick the familiar haunting white-blue. "How could you do this to me?" he repeats.

"I don't…" Jack whispers. "I'm sorry."

"How…" Dean's head tips, spilling red from his lips toward the floor. He gives Sam's heart a squeeze, and the hunter shudders on the floor, "Could you do this to me?"

His voice slips further, small and wavering, "I don't know what to do, Dean. I don't know how to fix it."

Dean flickers. Beside Sam one moment, hand through Jack's chest the next. The pain is blinding. He can't inhale, and his limbs won't move in defense. "How…" Dean's voice is cold. There's none of the warmth that Jack has come to associate with the hunter. None of the _life._ He's staring into an empty shell. Michael's vessel, beaten to compliance. "Could you…" he twists his fist, and Jack gasps, tears springing to his eyes. "Do this to me?"

He yanks back, wrenching the muscle, pumping with life, out through his ribcage, splitting open his chest cavity and breaking bone.

And Jack jerks upwards screaming.

The panic consumes him, toes to head, numbing him. Air escapes in a gush, and he stops his guttural cries, not because he wants to, only because there's no space for it inside his squeezed lungs. Compressed. Tightened. He's going to suffocate.

Hands grab his arms, pinning the flailing, and a light flicks on behind him, leaving him momentarily blind. Spots float in and out, but in front of him, he can see Sam. He's not picking out distinct details, but it doesn't matter, because Sam got his heart torn out and Dean is—

_How could you do this to me?_

He can't. Can't. _Can't—_

Wheezes, thin and rattling, faint and weak, hiss out of him. His vision is beginning to blur. His entire face is numb, he can't feel the tears rolling down them, but he knows they're there because his eyes are wet.

"—ck! Hey, hey, look at me!" Urgency. Cold hands grab either side of his neck, pinning his head into place. "Jack. _Jack!"_

Another voice, Castiel, hand on his hair, "Jack, you need to breathe."

Funny. That's the problem.

He's…

What is _wrong_ with him!?

"Shh," Sam's grip loosens some, tone gentling, "shh, just try and hold your breath, okay? Look at me."

Jack tries to get his eyes to focus, he does, but they won't. He doesn't understand what's going on and it terrifies him. He's shaking. Rattling. Falling apart from inside and maybe—

_How could you do this to me?_

_—_ that would be better for everyone.

He's pulled forward, head smashed sideways against a flannel shirt, skin pinched against the buttons. His hand reaches out automatically to grab a fistful of it. Cold, bony fingers cup the side of his face to keep him there, the other around his shoulders. "Jack? Jack, can you hear my heartbeat?"

The question gives him pause. He settles his ear closer, trying to find the evasive sound. Nothing...nothing...there. _Thump-thud, thump-thud,_ a slight skitter, then a pause before it continues. Jack feels himself start to sag, tension bleeding from him. For a long time, Kelly's heartbeat was the only sound he knew. The noise feels him with a sense of safety and warmth.

His breathing begins to steady, the distraction enough of a hiccup to help him gain control. He stays here, in this bubble of ignorance, for what feels like hours but is likely only a few minutes before he becomes aware that something is touching his knee. Fingers. A hand. If he's hidden inside of Sam's arms, this must be Castiel's.

Jack blinks his eyes open sluggishly, feeling exhausted and humiliated. The dream was distorted and made little sense, and yet, here he was, panicking over something that wasn't real and never will be. It was all in his head, and he couldn't breathe. His teeth grit. He's tried so hard to prove himself the last few weeks. Prove that he could handle things, he is capable, even without his powers.

But now they'll know, just as he knows, that Jack is putting up a façade.

He is useless.

"Jack?" Sam's voice is soft. Jack can feel the rumble of the baritone against his face, but refuses to move. He exhales, afraid to let his breathing hitch again. "Hey, you with us?"

Yes. Unfortunately.

But the moment is over, and he needs to pull himself together again. Jack hesitantly pushes up, sliding out of the embrace with regret. He looks at the blue thread-worn blanket to gather himself, then raises his eyes to face the two. Castiel is squatted next to the bed, hand still lightly touching his knee. His eyebrows are drawn together in a very human expression of concern. Sam's head is tipped a little, lips pressed together, but expression mirroring Castiel's.

Jack flicks his gaze away, spotting the laptop abandoned on the couch. The light has gone off, but he can still hear the machine whirring softly. The clock on the bedside table reads four twenty-seven. Last time he'd checked, it had been just after eleven.

"Sorry," Jack says quietly, grabbing a fistful of the blanket and rubbing it between his hands. His chest aches dully, and his eyes are raw and wet. Sam and Castiel share a brief look, one that Jack's too tired to even guess at. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." Sam assures. There's a beat. "Do you want to talk about it?"

_How could you do this to me?_

Jack's teeth press harder together, and his eyes squint as the sensation of his heart dropping to his hips with dread settles inside of him. He swallows, then shakes his head minutely. What would he even say? "No," he flicks his gaze up toward them. "Thank you."

"Okay," Sam says, running a hand through his hair, even though Castiel looks like he wants to argue. "How 'bout you try and get some more sleep—?"

"No!" blurts out of him before he can stop it.

Sam's words stumble over themselves for a second, but he nods. His compliance is a relief. Jack doesn't have the energy to fight them. The hunter wets his lips and shifts slightly, "Cas has a general idea of where Henry will be. He's been at a coffee shop at six a.m. every day since Amber was killed. We can meet him there."

Jack nods. Demons. Case-work. A distraction would be wonderful. Anything but his thoughts.

"Jack…" Castiel says, and Jack lifts his eyes up to meet the electric blue. "We'll listen, if you want it."

 _Only if it's a convenience for you. Or I don't have questions._ Jack tries for a weak grin, ashamed. They're doing everything they can for him, and he's being selfish and whiny. His lie, as it scrapes itself off his tongue, feels more like a betrayal. "I know."

000o000

The coffee shop is tucked into a little corner of the small town, and one of the few places where food can be ordered. The only thing the owner is selling at six in the morning is some pastries that are dry and brittle, and muffins that are squishy on one side, hard on the other. The reason for this is revealed as the shop owner, a plump older woman who immediately coos over them, states with pride, "me and my granddaughters cook everything ourselves on Sunday evenin', and I defrost it over the week. Keeps them fresh as a fiddle!"

Jack's not entirely sure how the analogy applies. He lifts the coffee cup to his lips with doubt as she strides away, expecting it to taste like mud. It's surprisingly okay, warm and sweet, but the latter might be because of the four sugar packets he dumped inside of the liquid in an effort to preserve it. Sam grimaces through his own, and Castiel just stares at the cup he ordered for show more than anything else, expression thoughtful.

Beyond a stray comment here and there, they don't talk, watching the customers pour through the doors. Regulars, because the owner already has pastries and coffee set aside for them. They stride in, walk out, and the owner cheerfully discusses them with her one employee, a young woman who seems cheerful to engage in the gossip.

The town seems...Jack doesn't have the word. Sharp, maybe? Where they appear to be tight-knit, but an inside dive reveals their points. The employee and her boss have little to say that isn't demeaning, and it seems to be a theme for the customers to arrive and state some sort of complaint.

Jack has started to zone a little, cup long since empty and working through Castiel's, when Sam nudges his forearm with his elbow. Jack sits up straighter, eyes snapping up. "That's him," Sam says, tipping his chin at the man who just entered. Not overly tall, but not short either, a business man with a blond hairline that's starting to recede and facial hair that reminds Jack a little of Tony Stark. He's in a white polo, with a striped tie, but without a suit jacket.

He strides up toward the counter and orders a latte, then without further prompting, walks towards the table they've claimed as their own for the better part of half an hour now. The man grabs the fourth chair and spins it, straddling it as he sits down directly across from Jack. His eyes flick black. He smiles at them with levity, gaze skimping over Castiel and himself to rest on Sam.

"Sam Winchester," the demon murmurs, "what an honor."

Sam shifts slightly, hand doing...something beneath the table. Jack's own hand has strayed to the angel sword Sam gave him from the trunk before they entered the shop. How stupid, Jack wonders, does this demon have to be in order to walk up to an armed hunter and an angel?

A gun cocks. Oh. That's what Sam's doing. "We can do this messily, or you walk out of here without a fuss." Sam says. His tone is devoid of emotion, lost the warmth that often wraps around it. His eyes are dead. This is the revered and feared hunter everyone speaks of, and not the man that Jack has known for the better part of a year with.

The demon huffs. "You gonna shoot me? A man of your experience should know that bullets are meaningless against a demon."

"Not when they're devil's trap." Sam says pleasantly. "Your choice."

"See, though, that's not what _I_ want," the demon says, and waves a hand. A signal. The four other customers in the building turn to face them, and the shop owner and her employee. All eyes flick black. Jack's stomach sinks as they withdraw weapons. Anything from a gun to a pocket knife. _Crap._ "I heard that Sam Winchester rolled into town, loyal lapdog at the helm and thought to myself 'Kipling, you don't get a chance like this more than once.'" _Kipling_? "Talk with a Winchester." He sighs, besotten.

"Right," Sam has shifted into a position of defense, no longer on the offensive. On Jack's left, Castiel has done the same. Jack's muscles are coiled, but he feels no different. "You want to talk? Talk."

"I want to make a deal."

"With _us_?" Castiel repeats, dubious.

"Well, I don't see anyone else in here," Kipling says, smirking. "The throne of hell is without a leader, and after a recent discussion about what I want, I've decided to take power. But I'm not an idiot. Your reputation speaks plain for you. I want the Crowley deal."

Jack's brow furrows. Crowley has always been an abstract concept to him. The Winchesters and Castiel don't speak of him often, and when they do it's a mix between vague fondness, annoyance, and some respect. But he didn't know anything about a deal.

"I give you a hand every now and then, you turn a blind eye to some more of my...uglier deals." Kipling continues.

"We didn't give Crowley that deal." Sam says, tone flat.

"Pity," Kipling murmurs, "then I suppose I'll have to be the first."

"No." Sam interrupts. "You won't. We're leaving," he raises his voice, " _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas_ —"

The room explodes into a flurry of movement. Kipling jerks a hand forward, throwing the three of them from the chairs and the table. Jack lands hard on his back, the metal framework of the seat slapping into his shoulder blades. For a moment, he's winded. Pain has always felt so different as a human.

Castiel has already surged to his feet, and is swinging his sword with flurries of swift, deadly movement. He makes fighting look like a dance. Kipling has grabbed Sam by the throat and is hauling him off the ground.

Jack shoves and elbow roughly into the tile and pushes himself to his feet, yanking out his borrowed blade. For a hopeless, helpless second, he doesn't know what to do with it. He's mostly been working on hand to hand and long-distance weapons the last few weeks. Blades require more fluidity of upper body movement than he had.

He doesn't get much of a choice. The possessed owner of the building leaps at him, a long, serrated knife in hand. Jack barely manages to dive out of the way, but the edge still nicks his cheek. He raises his sword up, hoping that skill will be gifted to him in the two seconds he's been holding it. It doesn't. There's a level of basic skill that he manages, but he doubts it's much more than adrenaline and basic human instinct.

Much to his embarrassment, she has him disarmed in less than a minute, and has swiped along his chest, opening a long gash. It stretches from his collarbone nearly to the end of his ribs, and Jack makes a sound of wordless agony. He hears a cry of his name, but his vision is going too much in and out for him to focus.

"Not much of a fighter, are you?" the demon sneers, swiping a finger at the end of the blade to wipe at his blood.

Jack pants, scowling, hands pressed against the areas as they leak blood. He can't think of a retort, and it isn't needed. Sam has Kipling by the throat with Ruby's knife, and is starting an exorcism again.

"I know where your brother is." The demon hisses.

Jack's stomach drops.

Sam falters.

Castiel misses a block, and takes a gut full of metal via a knife for it.

This seems to have provided the distraction the demons were seeking. Two grip Castiel by the arms as a third pushes his blade is pushed against his chin, and Kipling shoves Sam on top of the counter pinning him into place with demonic power.

Sam's Taurus lay abandoned next to the table. There's nineteen bullets in it. Ten of which are devil's trap. If Jack can get to it, and aim quickly enough, maybe he can fix this. He doesn't have the exorcism memorized, and this is all he'd be capable of.

But if Kipling really _does_ know where Dean is…

The tip of the blade pushes against his sternum, forcing him back against a wall. Jack grunts with discomfort. Neither Castiel or Sam are in the position to see him, and visibly shift with unease at the sound of his voice, but say nothing.

"I guess if you aren't going to give me a deal, I'll have to take it." Kipling sighs, like they're a group of rowdy children he doesn't want to quiet. He withdraws a small blade several inches long from his pocket, flicking it open and letting it hover above Sam's face.

Jack's mouth runs dry.

"Where's Dean?" Sam grits out.

"Ah-ah. See, _I'm_ the one talking here." He flicks the blade, cutting open a long streak across Sam's nose, but the hunter doesn't make a sound. How much pain, Jack wonders, would it take before you became numb to it? "So you can take the deal, and I'll even let you and your pets go, free of charge, or I start carving up those pretty eyes of yours."

_What?!_

Sam is quiet, jaw taut. "Tell me what you know about Dean."

Kipling flicks his wrist, swiping the blade down with a jerk. Sam releases a gasping, choked sound, body shuddering as if trying to curl in, but unable. "See, that wasn't on the paper," Kipling sighs. "You just don't listen very well." Castiel wrestles with the demons holding him in fury, but Jack can hardly keep himself on his feet. His legs feel weak and his throat clogged with horror.

"Let him go, you bast—" Castiel starts to swear, but the demon holding the blade delivers a swift punch to his midsection, over his previous stab. Castiel goes quiet.

 _Do something,_ Jack demands of himself, _do something you moron!_

He stands still, wishing, like a small child, that someone else would fix it because he doesn't know what to do. He's the one with a tactical advantage, the one that's not as guarded. It makes sense for him to go. It's not his first battle. Not the first time he's seen torture. But inside of his skin, Jack feels very vulnerable.

"So, what do you say, Sammy? We got a quid pro quo? You do something for me, I do something for you?" Kipling asks.

Sam's voice is a shaky gasp. "Go-go to h-hell."

"Wrong answer." Kipling jerks the knife down. The sound Sam makes causes something in Jack to retreat, seeking safety. It's the type of noise that someone makes when they're lungs are being yanked up their throat.

He thinks, somewhere very distant, he's furious.

But his hands are shaking.

"Sam," he whispers. This hunt was his idea. These injuries are on him. If Sam dies... _how could you do this to me?_

Castiel _lurches,_ shouting Sam's name. The demons have to scramble to keep a hold on him, and Castiel spits out curses in Enochian that Jack doesn't understand. He hasn't since his grace was taken. His breathing has picked up speed. The demon in front of him has twisted around, nothing short of delight on its features as it watches the spectacle.

Jack swallows down bile, and tries for courage. He forces up any dredge of it still remaining in him as he swings out with his left hand, forcing the knife from the demon's grip with a well place smack to the vessel's palm. It's probably more distraction than any luck that causes the blade falls, and Jack dives for the gun. His shaking fingers have scarcely touched the handle before a high-pitched whine encroaches his senses.

Jack cries out in pain, hands slapping over his ears. Bright light encases the entire coffee shop, and Jack ducks his head, eyes squeezing shut. It's only a few seconds, but Jack feels the tremor of power wash through the room. It's like a warm, suffocating blanket. His frame shakes, blood trickling from his nose and ears.

When the light no longer feels like it will blind him, and the sound has quieted, Jack blinks his eyes open, gasping. His hand is wrapped around the Taurus, for all the good that does him. There are only two vessels in the shop. They've collapsed to the ground, black eyes smoking, dead. Castiel is staggering toward the counter, panting, blood leaking down his shirt.

What, Jack wonders, brain hazy, was _that?_

"Sam," Castiel says, and reaches out a hand to lay on his chest, swearing, "Sam, it's okay. You'll be fine." His tone is desperate, but Sam says nothing, only gasping. Castiel shouts his name.

Jack hobbles up, hand tight around the weapon. He feels sick. His mouth tastes like ash, and his tongue is swollen in his throat. He staggers toward the two as Castiel helps Sam off the counter slowly. The Winchester staggers, collapsing forward. Castiel catches him, adjusting his grip to support the weight, saying meaningless reassurances.

Sam's head raises.

Jack freezes, utterly boneless and panicked.

On either eye is a deep gash the length of several inches, digging into the eyelid and likely the eye. The skin is already starting to swell and blood is mixing with tears like Sam is weeping it. His face is ashen, and though he needs the support, he's leaning away from Castiel.

"Don't…" Sam whispers.

"Sam, it's okay," Castiel says, and starts to hobble for the door.

"I c-can't...oh, god..."

"We can fix this," Castiel promises, looking like he's about to tip over. His face is almost as white as Sam's is. Castiel shouts his name again, shouldering open the door, moving for the Impala.

He can't help now, Jack realizes. He was the source of that light. He's drained himself.

Castiel saved them.

But he wouldn't have had to, if Jack hadn't gotten them condemned in the first place. He staggers forward on weak legs, gun clenched against his stomach, heart dangling somewhere beneath his knees. He tries to reach out for Sam to help support, but the second his fingers touch the hunter's arm, he shudders away.

Jack thinks he might puke.

_How could you do this to me?_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you're comfortable with that. I'd love to know your thoughts.
> 
> Next chapter: ?
> 
> *Depending on how much people are interested will raise this on my list of fic priorities.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for your support! I hope that you enjoy chapter two. Further the pain and trauma! :)
> 
> Disclaimer: No
> 
> Warnings: PTSD, anxiety attacks, anxiety, self harm, language.
> 
> *please give me creative liberty about the other world hunters. Maggie is literally the only one I can remember being important enough that the name stuck with me. So. *waves flag of creative liberty*'"

* * *

_"I am sick to my soul,_

_with a disease,_

_called_

_thought."_

_-Unknown_

* * *

"Get the first aid kit!" Castiel demands of him once he's forcefully wrenched the backdoor open, flinging the Impala's keys at him with a sharp jerk of his wrist. Jack stumbles in his haste to catch them, and barely manages to do so between shaking fingers. Castiel manhandles Sam into the seat, looking like he's about to topple on top of him.

Jack pulls his eyes away with effort, moving for the trunk. Everything beneath his knees is numb, and he awkwardly trips over himself with his inability to navigate the short distance. _Calm down,_ he chides himself. His panic isn't going to help anyone. It was one of the first things that Bobby grilled into him when he and Mary joined the rebels.

He stabs the key against the metal around the lock several times before he manages to jab it inside of the hole. He can't remember which way keys turn to unlock and twists both directions before the tumblers give and he manages to yank the trunk open.

His fingers wiggle in beneath the false bottom and Jack forces it open with choppy movements, breathing through parted lips harshly. He tosses the gun inside of the trunk, amid the other junk. His chest aches, and his arms are stiff as he moves them around the gash. Jack doesn't care. Sam makes a noise of pain from the backseat, and his incentive knocks up a notch. Jack fumbles around the equipment, shoving a half-full gallon of holy water out of the way, looking for the familiar metal box.

Where is it, where is it, where—his fingers catch the edge and he forces the container from it's confines, managing to dislodge a rifle in the process. Jack pulls the trunk closed with a creak of metal, not bothering to close the false bottom, letting it get forced shut with the weight of the trunk.

He stumbles around the edge of the car, shoving the box towards Castiel. The seraph is already waiting, and takes it from him. His white shirt is stained a deep, wet red in the front, and Jack feels his face drain of color at the sight.

_Your idea._

_Your fault._

_Useless, useless child._

"I, um," Jack intones, though he doesn't know why. It's not like Castiel is really listening to him. The angel shoves open the container, nearly spilling the contents across the ground in his haste. Sam shifts in the seat, white hands flexing across his knees. His head is tilted forward, hair covering any sight of his face. Jack feels awful that he's relieved by this.

"Sam," Castiel says, setting the box onto the Winchester's lap. Sam jerks a fraction, a slight noise slipping from him, almost like a moan. Jack stands beside the angel, wanting to help, but unsure what to do. "Sam, this is only a momentary patching job. We just need to get you back to the Bunker, I…" his gaze shifts down, towards his blood-soaked shirt, "I drained myself. I need a few hours before I can heal you."

He's bleeding out.

Jack doubts his assessment is based in truth.

And terror wraps around him at that. Can Castiel _die_ from blood loss? It's a question he'd never bothered to consider before, because he could _fix_ it before. What Castiel didn't heal from was only a minor inconvenience. Not... _oh, no._

"Cas…" Sam's voice is faint. His hand reaches out as Castiel uncaps some sort of bottle and dips a wad of gauze with it. "Y'kay…?"

"Yes, Sam," Castiel's words are spoken between his teeth. "I'm fine."

"Cas," Jack whispers in protest. If he reached out and touched even just the shirt, his hand would be soaked. The angel's movements are choppy with pain and discomfort, lacking any grace they usually contain.

Sam's cold fingers grab Jack's palm, pushing painfully into the skin. Jack jumps at the sudden contact, and the hunter lifts his head toward him. Whether or not the action was intended as seeking comfort or giving it is beyond Jack. Bile rises in his throat. The hunter's face is streaked with weeping blood, smeared down his cheeks and leaking toward his mouth, coloring his beard. He doesn't want to think about how painful it must be, but his mind keeps straying toward that.

His stomach is twisting in knots. It's getting harder to breathe.

Without making the conscious decision to, Jack finds himself squeezing Sam's hand.

"Jack," Sam slurs his name. If he was going to say anything else, it's lost as Castiel reaches out and grabs the back of Sam's head with a gentleness that belies his earlier movements, and presses the prepared gauze against his eyes. Sam tries to form a word, but it's lost in his throat as a hoarse strangled sound. His fingers grip back against Jack's harder.

Sam chokes, body bucking faintly and he whispers a string of words beneath his breath, one of which Jack thinks is "Dean."

"Sorry, sorry," Castiel chants under his breath, in between hisses of Enochian that Jack suspects are curses. The seraph wraps the length of gauze around Sam's head, tangling with his hair. When his arms reach up to tie it off at the back of Sam's skull, Castiel nearly staggers into Sam's lap, barely managing to catch himself with a bloody hand against the roof of the Impala. His face creases with pain.

Sam's head lifts at the noise.

Jack jerks forward, grabbing the angel's shoulder. The skin is hot beneath his, and Castiel is trembling. Jack's hand is shaking. He tries to quell the tremor, but he can't. "Cas—Cas, sit down." His words sound funny to his ears, almost tinny, like he's speaking through a phone.

He doesn't want to take charge. He doesn't want to do nothing, but he doesn't want to take charge.

His heart is smacking against his ribcage, and every breath sounds like he's exhaling a hurricane.

Castiel staggers back a step, tripping over himself and sliding against the open door until he's hit the asphalt with a jolt. His eyes are wide, and face streaked with sweat and blood. Jack licks his lips, swallowing along his dry throat. Assess, assess, _assess._

He wiggles his left hand from Sam's death grip with some effort, reaching out to finish Castiel's work. He ties the knot with awkward movements. Kelly always double knotted everything, and there's not enough length of cloth to do so, even if his muscle memory tries for it.

"Give...give him the painkillers." Castiel instructs from the ground. Jack can hear his breath. Wheezes. Sam is panting, right hand's thumb digging into his left palm with a force that looks nearly excruciating.

Guilt spasms through him. This hunt was supposed to be easy. A vampire. A simple beheading. It wasn't supposed to end like this. He shakes his head, mouth thinning. Yes, they got out of the Bunker, and yes, they did something that didn't involve trying to hunt for Dean, but at what _cost?_

What if…

_What if…?_

"Jack." Jack jerks a little, realizing that his hands have moved to the first aid kit, but stilled. He looks down at Castiel, who's attempting to prop himself up, but having little success.

"I don't…" Jack whispers, holding several orange prescription bottles in his hands, but having little idea what any of the names mean. He doesn't know which one is the painkiller. He doesn't know which one is going to help. He grasps at Kelly's knowledge for assistance, but she was never hospitalized for anything serious.

"Fentanyl." Castiel grits between his teeth.

Jack nods several times, looking over the names again before he spots the proper bottle. He twists off the cap with effort and shakes out one of the pills, grabbing for Sam's hand. Sam twists away from him, expelling air with a rush.

"Sam. You need to take this," Jack explains, "it will help with the pain."

Sam's head is forward, neck rigid, body braced. He doesn't appear to have heard him. Jack tries to put the pill into his hand again, only to have Sam lurch back from him, and scramble away from him along the length of the backseat. Jack's teeth press together, and he gives up, shoving the pill inside of the bottle. He catches the edge of his thumbnail when he tries to twist the cap back on. The pain is little in comparison to his chest, but it brings instinctive tears to his eyes and he almost screeches with frustration.

He throws the bottle into the metal container. Sam jerks at the sudden noise.

Jack breathes out heavily, turning to Castiel. He gathers the first-aid kit and squats down beside the seraph. Castiel's eyes have closed and his hand is pressed against the wound, blood leaching between the cracks in his fingers. Jack swallows compulsively at the sight. He leans forward, starting to thumb the shirt apart. Castiel grips his wrist with sudden ferocity, and he winces, holding his arm as still as he can. Castiel's fingers are tight enough that Jack is slightly afraid he's going to break the bone.

"Cas," Jack whispers. He doesn't know why, but their resistance to his touch _hurts._ Shouldn't they know him by now? Shouldn't they trust him? Has he messed up so terribly here that they can't even stand to be in contact with him?

Castiel's blue eyes focus, and he releases Jack's wrist instantly. "Sorry." He winces.

"It's okay," Jack promises with a weak smile, even though it's not. He reaches for the wound again, and thumbs the shirt apart. Castiel lets him this time. The wound isn't wide, but it _is_ deep. Centered a little above Castiel's left hip, red and raw beneath the thick blood. Jack's lips part, but he feels stuck. Not looking at Castiel, but the aftermath of battles between Michael's angels and the rebels, with the bloody, gaping wounds winking back at him when he walked through the bodies.

"Jack," Castiel's voice is oddly gentle. It grounds him, and Jack blinks several times, managing to maintain eye contact for longer than a fleeting second. "Jack, we're going to be fine. It's not life-threatening. I promise."

The words should be reassuring, but they're not. His stomach drops, and he feels sick. _You lie_ , he wants to shout, _you lie all the time! How am I supposed to believe you now?!_

"Help me up." Castiel requests.

"Wh-what?" Jack stutters. "Cas—Cas, no, I need to—" he tries to reach the wound again, explain his thoughts. Emphasize the fact that Castiel is bleeding _everywhere_ and they need to do something about it.

"Someone needs to drive. Sam is incapacitated and you don't know how." Castiel says.

"No." Jack finds himself protesting before he can stop himself. "You're...blood...Cas. You—I'll call Mary. She can come get us."

Castiel shakes his head, grabbing onto the edge of the door, hauling himself up. He sways and Jack follows him up, trying to help. He can't, because of course he can't, and Castiel takes a stumbled step away from the door. His eyes crease at the edges. "We don't have the time."

"But we—"

And those intense, powerful, otherworldly eyes fix on him. Jack's tongue curls back in his mouth in his haste to shut up. He takes a step back despite himself. How could he have ever been comfortable in the presence of this being? How _are_ Sam and Dean?

Sam.

"There were seven demons in that diner, Jack. I only killed two, neither of which were Kipling. They'll be back. We can't wait here. We're defenseless and weak. We have to leave." Castiel says firmly.

Jack nods. It's less because he agrees and more because he doesn't want to argue with him anymore. Castiel holds out a hand, and Jack stares at it utterly bewildered before he realizes he's asking for the Impala's keys. It takes him a second of patting pockets before he finds them. He drops the set into Castiel's palm with a repressed wince.

The seraph pauses, staring at him with greater intensity, as if searching for something. His eyes settle on Jack's chest, then the blood, and his eyes flick with an intense heat that almost makes Jack collapse to his knees as the angel's aura flares with hatred. It's not for him, he _knows_ that, but he can't…

His heart is louder. Thumping with enough force he almost wants to rest a hand over it as if that will calm it.

"I can wait," Jack says, "it hardly hurts."

_Now who's lying?_

"Jack…"

"We don't have time," Jack reminds. His eyes slide to Sam.

Castiel's jaw bunches, hands clenched, but he gathers the first-aid kit off the ground and thrusts it at Jack. "Take care of it." He commands, then hobbles around toward the driver seat. Jack exhales shakily, eyes burning, and throat tight. His legs feel weak and his will to keep fighting even lower.

 _I can't..._ he thinks with sudden despair, _I can't…_

He grips the metal tighter and clambers into the backseat of the Impala beside Sam. The hunter's teeth are gritted and his head bowed, bloody hands gripping the sides of his hair as he breathes through his teeth. Castiel is squinting at the dashboard like he can't remember where the ignition is.

Jack pulls the backdoor closed with a squeak of metal.

Sam winces. Castiel's gaze flicks up before he shoves the key in and twists it, causing the car to roar to life. The noise grates at his nerves, and Jack trembles silently. Castiel checks behind them, twisting the car out of the parking space with familiarity that makes Jack think longingly of Dean.

_How could you do this to me?_

Jack holds the first-aid kit next to his stomach and tries not to cry.

000o000

The drive is long. He's sure he's endured longer, but this one seems to be nearly endless.

They should be taking Sam to a hospital. It's the only thing that Jack can think coherently between the screaming in his head. They need to take him to a hospital, but Castiel doesn't turn that direction. He floors the gas pedal, and points them in the direction of the Bunker. Away from civilization, away from _help_.

He wants to fight.

To force Castiel to take Sam to the ER.

But what does he know? He's barely been alive for almost a year, and somehow he's supposed to know better than Castiel's thousands of years of experience? But it seems _wrong._ Sam stuffed in the back of the car, wheezing passing for breaths, looking like he's a mix between wanting to curl up on himself and stabbing something.

The one time that Jack attempted to grip Sam's shoulder in the way that he's seen Dean and Castiel do often in comfort, Sam had jerked so violently he'd rammed his head against the roof of the car and hissed something in a string of syllables Jack hadn't understood or recognized. Castiel had lifted his gaze from the gritted focal point of "generally forward" to give Jack a long look and say quietly, "He's...he's not himself right now. Don't touch him."

Jack kept his hands to himself after that.

His limbs are stiff, aching, and tired, but he can't sit still. Can't sleep. Not yet.

Castiel keeps a death grip around the wheel, fingers stretched taut. He looks worse as time passes, but the Impala remains in between the lines as if to defy Castiel's injury. He doesn't sway in and out, nor nearly crash them. Jack is more impressed than he cares to admit. But he wonders, like he so often does about the things he doesn't know, if Castiel has a lot of experience driving in agony.

Jack eventually pulls together a sloppy field job of medicine on his chest. It doesn't really help with the pain, but Castiel looks like he's breathing a little easier after it's bandaged. It's not life threatening, he doesn't think. Just uncomfortable.

Hours later, when they at last roll into the familiar dusty streets of Lebanon, then the Bunker, Jack feels himself sag with relief, but his stomach churn with disgust and dread. _What is Mary going to think? What about Bobby? Michael's rebels?_

They park outside of the Bunker.

Castiel doesn't get out of the car, he just sits there, hunched over the steering wheel, forehead pushed against the top, eyes squeezed closed and breathing hard and fast. Jack's chest feels like it's being scraped open every time he breathes too deeply, but the pain that has kept him teetering on and off the edge of consciousness seems little in comparison to _this._

"Cas?" Jack whispers.

Sam twitches beside him. It's the most movement he's given since he curled up against the door and buried his head into his hands an hour ago. Jack waits with bated breath for Castiel to answer, but the seraph remains stubbornly silent. "Cas, are you okay?"

_No, he's not okay, you idiot. Look at him._

Jack licks his lips, fighting back the urge to panic. He shifts forward to grab Castiel's shoulder and shake him, but the movement along the bench seat ignites some sort of flight response within Sam. His body jerks back, scrabbling into the corner, as if trying to bend inside of it. One leg flails in this rapid movement and catches Jack's knee with a steel booted edge, and he gasps back with a pained hiss at the white-hot agony that splits up his leg.

Jack's hand flies to it automatically, gripping between white fingers and he reaches for empty reserves of grace that aren't there. It's like being scraped inside out by a fork, and he makes a hoarse, mewled sound.

His jerk to the side doesn't induce any concern from either of his fellow passengers. Sam's bloodstained hand smacks against the side of the door, as if looking for an exit, but unable to because his torso is smashed up against the handle.

"Sam—" Jack says, unsure how to calm him. He feels helpless and useless.

Sam whispers something else in that language from earlier, and Jack finally places the rough syllables. Enochian. His face drains of color. He didn't...he didn't know that Sam knew Enochian. Does Dean? Are all those conversations Jack thought were secret with Castiel in the angel's native tongue just as known as their English ones?

Sam must find the door handle, because the opposing door opens and Sam falls from his view for a moment, landing hard on the dry dirt and rough grass stalks. For a moment, Jack is frozen with the terror that Sam is going to start running. He doesn't understand completely what's going on, but he's not stupid. He knows what a panic attack looks like.

Jack casts a longing glance at Castiel, still breathing hard, but immovable, and scrambles along the bench seat to hobble out beside the hunter.

His left knee almost buckles from the strain of holding his weight, and he blinks back the instinctive tears that spring to his eyes, looking. Sam isn't running. He's not writhing on the ground. He's on all fours, hands clutching the grass and breathing in ragged gasps through his mouth, a few feet from the Impala.

Jack stares at his hunched form, feeling very young. He closes his eyes a moment, breathing out slow through his mouth. Maggie, a hunter from Michael's world, suffered from anxiety attacks frequently. He's not ignorant to what to do, he just can't seem to make himself _do_ it.

Jack hobbles forward a step, the weight on his left leg nearly toppling him. He grits his teeth and pushes forward, resting a hand on Sam's shoulder tentatively. Sam bunches beneath him, coiled muscles prepared to fight. He says something hoarse in Enochian.

Jack wants to know what it is. He wants to help. He wants to _understand._ His other hand comes up, rubbing a thumb knuckle desperately against his sternum. The pain makes him focus. "Sam? It's okay," Jack says carefully. "It's okay, you're safe. Nothing bad's gonna happen to you." _Nothing that hasn't already,_ he doesn't add, but thinks darkly. Jack repeats the reassurances, keeps his hand steady, but also holds his distance.

After what feels like an age, Sam asks quietly, left hand dug into a fist deep enough Jack is worried he's dug gouges to bone, "Dean?" There's the faintest trace of an accent there, a roughness too thick for English. Enochian.

Jack's heart leaps to his throat anyway, relief making him sag. "No, he's not...here right now," Jack says, tightening his grip to a reassuring squeeze. "Do you know who I am?"

_Please, please, please…_

Sam's head tips a fraction to the side, as if he's thinking. "...Jack?" His tongue works awkwardly around the word, voice still a little too _off_ to be familiar.

"Yeah," Jack tries to keep warmth in his voice, instead of the apprehension and worry. His entire body is beginning to throb. "Can you sit here for a second? I need to check on Cas." He says, more surprised than he cares to admit when his tone doesn't wobble.

"I—um. I don't." Sam tries, leaning back on his heels. He lifts his left hand close to his chest, nails still digging into a faint white scar the shape of a "U", and grabs the fist with his right hand, squeezing the nails further into his skin. Thin lines of blood ooze down to his wrist. It looks like it would hurt, but Sam doesn't even flinch. Jack doesn't ask and doesn't stop him, afraid that if he does, Sam will slip away again.

"What's wrong with Cas? Are you okay? Where…?"

"The Bunker. I'm fine. I don't know about Cas. Give me a second," Jack says and pats Sam's shoulder before backing away. Sam still looks a little disoriented, mouth twisting, but Jack can't wait any longer. He grabs the driver's side door and pulls it open, gripping Cas's shoulder.

The seraph is pliant under his grip, and when Jack rolls his face, his eyes are closed. Jack thinks about his earlier reassurances and feels a bitter taste flood his mouth. _Liar,_ he thinks, but he didn't expect much differently. Jack checks on the wound and doesn't know what to do when he realizes that it's still bleeding sluggishly.

If it's still bleeding, and has been for hours…

Angels can't bleed out, but their vessels _can._

"Sam," Jack looks at the hunter, "Sam, can you stand?"

"I don't…where're…?"

No, no, they don't have _time_ for this! Frustration snaps through him like a cackling of a whip. "Sam!" He hisses, harsher than he means to, " _Help_ me!"

Sam flinches back from his tone, head smacking lightly against the dark metal, nails pushing harder, but just sits there as Jack begins to pull Castiel's limp vessel from the car. He feels something harsh and grating lodge in his throat when he realizes that it's a miracle they made it to the Bunker before Castiel gave in.

Jack isn't weak, but Castiel isn't small. His body is heavy, and Jack's knee wobbles when he tries to hold him upright. Tears blink into his vision again, and Jack doesn't bother to hide them. With Sam's eyes the mess they are, who's going to see them? He longs for the angelic strength he took for granted.

Jack pulls Castiel's legs out, and the full weight makes his knee buckle. He stumbles back, smashing the side of his face on the edge of the unforgiving windowpane before landing hard on his knees. He keeps Castiel from hitting the ground by pulling him against himself as if they're hugging. His leg pulses up to his hip, blinding him.

Jack buries his head into Castiel's shoulder, a harsh, grating sob escaping him.

He made a mess and he can't even clean it up. He can't get Castiel into the Bunker, and should have gone for help before he even tried. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid_ —

Sam's cold fingers touch at his hair with hesitancy. Jack jerks his head up at the contact, turning it sharply to stare at Sam. The hunter pulls back his hand, "Jack?" His voice is still wrong. Fresh tears spill out of him at the unfamiliar sound.

"H-help me carry him," Jack sucks in a breath between his teeth, tossing hair from his eyes. "Help me carry him," he says more firmly. He hauls Castiel up with effort, and Sam's hands tap against Castiel's back, looking for an arm until he swings Castiel's arm across his shoulders.

The two of them, with effort, haul the angel toward the Bunker's door. Jack doesn't have the energy to spare to dig out a key, and simply pounds a fist against the heavy metal and waits. Castiel's weight doesn't get easier to bear, and he can feel his knee cramping before the door is opened by a frazzled looking rebel.

His eyes widen, "Damn!"

"Percy," Jack breathes in relief. "Please, we need—"

"Like, every wad of gauze in this place." Percy interrupts, dark eyes fixed on Sam's face. He backs out of the doorway, "Um, can you make it down the stairs? I've gotta go get the med room prepped."

"Yeah," Jack says, even though he doesn't believe it. "Yeah, we can do that."

Percy nods, and turns, quickly stomping down the stairs and yelling for someone to help him. _I can do this,_ Jack thinks hysterically, and hauls Castiel's arm up a little further. His body trembles.

000o000

Twenty minutes later, Bobby is sitting in front of him, pulling away Jack's hasty field bandages after wrapping his knee (not broken, just badly bruised) and smacking an icepack on it. The cuts on his face Jack took care of himself.

Bobby's brow is furrowed and eyes tight as he stares at the knife wound. "Dammit, boy, you go knocking on trouble's doorstep begging for pennies?" Bobby grouses.

Jack shakes his head, but doesn't say anything else, leaving his hands limp on his lap. From his position, he can see both Castiel and Sam. Castiel is laying flat on a cot, one of the rebel's tentatively looking for signs of awareness. Sam is seated upright, Mary replacing the bandages, but unable to do anything else. The tightness between her shoulders assures Jack she's either furious or worried.

Likely both.

Bobby pulls the stitches taut across his chest and Jack winces, eyes squinting tight as he returns his gaze to the weathered hunter in front of him. Worn-rough fingers work through the string, pushing the skin none-to-gently back together.

If Jack tips his head back enough, he can see the other rebels gathering in the doorway, afraid to enter, but too curious to leave. Jack flicks his eyes away from their presence, embarrassed. He doesn't want everyone to know of his mistake. Of his failure to protect like he was supposed to.

This _never_ would have happened if he'd had his powers.

_Never._

Bobby finishes the line of stitching down his chest, and tapes a large white bandage over the front. Jack shifts in discomfort at the sticky sensation. "Don't pick at these," Bobby warns. The words almost seem wry, but his expression is anything but. Jack straightens a little, nodding.

Bobby sighs and gathers up his equipment. "You'll live, kid."

A thought occurs to him, so sudden and strange that he can't stop himself from voicing it. "Is it going to scar?" Jack asks. The only scar that he has is from the archangel blade. It may not be healed yet, but Castiel warned him it would.

Bobby pauses, then looks at him, gaze lingering on the now-taped and bandaid-covered gashes on his face. His frown deepens. He's quiet for a long moment, as if seriously contemplating the question. "I'm not sure, probably, kid," is what he settles on. He pats Jack's shoulder twice, "'Bout time you started collecting scars like the rest of us."

Jack nods, biting on his lower lip. He ducks his head, and Bobby takes his scattered equipment and leaves his line of sight. Jack stares down at his hands for a long time, feeling lost in them. The ridges that smooth over into lines. Flexion creases, not straight lines like Sam and Dean have, but broken and split.

These hands feel so cold, so heavy, in the absence of the energy his powers gave him.

He wraps his arms around his stomach, wishing he had a shirt. He feels vulnerable without it. Exposed, like his secrets are going to come spilling out of his chest cavity and he has to keep them inside.

Empty. He feels empty.

"Hey," Mary says. Jack looks up at her. He didn't hear her approach. The hard ridges of her face and tight line of her jaw are all that greets him. No warm eyes. No reassurance. Just...cold. She studies his face, gaze lingering on the cuts. "You took a good hit." She says, eyes squinting. She reaches out a hand to gently turn his face to the left, staring at the scrape along his eye. "That a knife wound?"

Jack huffs, somewhere between mirthless and bitter. "Actually, this one is from the car door."

He hadn't realized it at the time, but falling against the door had done a little more than make him cry. Once Bobby had pointed the cut out to him, he'd been unable to ignore it. It still stings, but not enough to make his eyes water.

Mary's eyebrow raises in silent question. Jack shrugs, releasing his lower lip, "I fell."

Her gaze jumps to his knee, and Jack stubbornly doesn't follow it. "How's…" and back his lower lip goes between his teeth, "how's Sam? Is he okay?"

Mary sighs and glances back at her son, pulling away her hand. Sam is sitting rigidly against the bed, hands still fisted in that forceful attempt to shove his nails through his palm. "He's going to be fine," Mary says with a tight smile, which doesn't answer the question. _Going to_ isn't the same thing as a current state.

Jack's shoulders slump a little, but he nods, tired of fighting. "Do you know if Cas has woken up yet?"

"Not yet," Mary answers carefully, "but he's going to be okay. I've seen him walk away from worse."

Like what? Mary has only known Castiel and the Winchesters for close to two years. What could have _possibly_ put Castiel in a worse state than _unconsciousness?_ Jack bites harder at his lip and pulls his hands tighter against his ribcage, like he can push his fingers into the gaps between rib bones. "Thank you for telling me."

Mary nods, holding still for a long moment, as if she's thinking. Or wants to ask something. Jack thinks he knows what, and braces himself for the question.

"Jack...what _happened?_ This was supposed to be a vamp hunt. I get they aren't a milk run, but…" Mary trails off, glancing back at the beds. The other rebels lingering around. She's trying to gather information to tell the others, Jack knows this, but he feels his mouth clamp up and refuse to spill.

But Mary has already waited long enough. They've been in here for what? Thirty minutes? And the only time she's asked before this was to snap a sharp " _what happened!?"_ when she stormed into the medical room.

He swallows and shifts, wanting to hide his eyes behind his hair so he doesn't have to look at her. But to do so would be cowardly, and Jack refuses to let himself go there. "It, uh, didn't turn out to be a vamp. I guessed wrong. It was demons. We fought, and they got me. Then they—" _said they knew where Dean was,_ he stops himself from saying, unsure what Mary will do with that information. _Afraid_ of what Mary will do with that information. "—got the upperhand. The demon in charge...he, um, knifed Sam's eyes. Cas did something with his powers and...smote them, maybe? I don't know. He drove us back. You were here for the rest."

Mary nods, frown pulling at her lips.

Jack's body feels like a tensed bow string, ready to release at the slightest give of pressure. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired. Could we continue this later?" Jack asks, breath clenching as he waits, hopeful.

Mary looks harder at him, then nods again, "Of course. You lay down for a bit, I'll wake you up if something changes." Her body rocks once, hesitant, then she lifts up a hand and brushes stray hair from his eyes. Jack tries not to pull back at the contact. "I _am_ glad you're okay."

Because okay doesn't mean uninjured to the Winchesters. It just means that you're not dead.

Jack gives her a weak smile. Then he lays down on the uncomfortable cot with springs that feel like they're attempting to reach through the mattress and rake metallic fingers across his spine, and closes his eyes.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep, but nothing changes before he does.

000o000

He doesn't know how long he rests, but he wakes to the sound of Sam and Cas's voices whispering harshly. He doesn't understand half the words at first, and it takes him longer to realize that's because half of them are in Enochian.

Jack tenses up, his body bunching like he's about to be struck. He listens carefully to the low rumble of Castiel answering in soft English, "...fine. You're safe. Sam, _look_ at me." His voice is gruff, exhausted, wrapped with an edge of sleep that is unfamiliar to him.

Look at him. _Look._ Are...are his eyes okay, then?

Sam says something.

He hears Mary release some sort of sound. A sigh mixed with a helpless moan. "Mary," Castiel's voice is very careful, "can you get everyone out here? Their presence is bothering him."

"Yeah. Yeah, I can do that." Mary says, almost as if snapping from a daze. She starts to hustle people from the room, including Charlie and Bobby, and Jack feels his gut clench as he wonders with vague horror if she's going to wake him and force him from the space. She doesn't. The door closes with a finality that doesn't help his anxiety.

And now that he's been left here, he realizes he shouldn't be. He's eavesdropping. (And what does that say about him, that he almost doesn't care?)

"Sam," Castiel's voice is somehow softer, enough that Jack has to strain to hear him, "Sam, it is okay. It really is okay. I promise. Look at me, you're not _there._ Here, just—" and there's a rustle of clothing, then Sam makes a slight sound. "Tell me if anything changed. See? It's fine."

Sam whispers something.

"No," Castiel answers. "No, he's not here."

Dean, maybe? Someone else?

Jack's fingers curl, and he's grateful that his back is to them.

Sam says something else, voice clipped. What is he _saying?_ Jack never realized what a gift it was to be able to speak the hard language until it was taken from him. "Yes." Castiel says, to whatever the question was. Sam asks something else that Castiel gives another curt "yes" to, then a slightly softer "I've been better."

There's a slur of Enochian syllables merging into nearly indescribable English, and the only thing that sounds normal is his name, tagged onto the end. "—Jack?" _Please think I'm sleeping, please, please, please..._ Jack closes his eyes tighter, as if to will the illusion of sleep to be firm and unbreakable.

He feels their gazes settle on his back, "He's sleeping," Castiel says. "As you should be."

"Sss fine." Sam says hoarsely, voice still thick with that accent, "I'm going—no. I've? I've got to...to...god, Cas...what is the word?"

 _He can't remember?_ Sam is one of the few people that Jack has heard throw absurdly big words into sentences frequently and not even seem to recognize that he's done so. Dean fondly referred to him once as a walking synonym generator.

"Sleep." Castiel says flatly.

Sam whispers something in Enochian, then says, "Check. I need to check on Jack." Movement, blankets rustling. Jack feels something warm, but also cold and squirming, settle in his stomach as he realizes that one of Sam's first concerns after getting his sight back is _him._

"I will check on Jack."

"But I—"

"I won't let you dream, I promise." Castiel says quietly. Sam is quiet for a second, and must give some sign of consent, because he doesn't say anything else. Castiel's clothing rustles. Blankets move. Then nearly-silent footsteps walk towards Jack's cot.

Jack forces his fingers to relax, evening out his breathing.

The game is lost when a hand rests on his hair and he flinches. Castiel carts fingers through the strands as if having expected this, then his weight settles on the edge of the cot. The fingers are warm, and work through the tangles in his hair with a gentleness that feels strange after all the pain he's become familiar with. "May I heal you?" Castiel asks quietly.

Jack sighs, rolling over onto his back to stare up at the angel. Castiel doesn't look much better. Skin still edged on gray, eyes ringed with deep shadows and lips washed of any color. If Jack squints, he almost seems a little translucent, and the hum of grace can be traced from his vessel's brain down the body's nervous system.

He's wearing different clothing. Dressed in a gray shirt, the trenchcoat pulled over and bloodstained near his hips.

Castiel's eyes are like staring into an abyss, endless and endless, but pained and dark as they swirl into nothingness.

"I don't think you should." Jack murmurs. "Are you okay?"

"Enough for this," Castiel says simply. The fingers settle on his temple, and push a little harder before an overwhelming warmth washes through him. The force makes him want to vomit, and his core cries out as it tries to catch any semblance of power, snagging on Castiel's grace for a second before it slips away. The moment passes, and the only pain he feels is the familiar low throb on his chest.

Castiel closes his eyes, expression flattening as if he's trying not to pass out. Jack pushes up on one elbow, forcing himself into a seated position in case he needs to grab the seraph and hold him upright. Castiel doesn't waver. His eyes open and he gives a tight grimace-smile. "I'm okay, Jack, really. I just need some more rest."

"Angels don't sleep." Jack says tonelessly.

"I'm…" Castiel's lips press together, as if biting back something harsh. He turns to face Jack a little better, meeting his eyes. Slowly and carefully, as if selecting his words with precision, Castiel says, "Something happened to me a few years ago...my grace has been severely depleted ever since. While what I did at that diner wouldn't have been anything to think twice about before, it's...it's not like that anymore. I forget my limitations. Rest is part of that sometimes."

He didn't know...he didn't know that Castiel wasn't at full power. If Castiel is this overwhelming, depleted as he is, what was he like _before?_

Jack's brow lowers. Curiosity swims through him, tugging, pushing, insatiable. "What happened?" he asks.

Castiel's hands still. Jack didn't realize they were moving back and forth across his legs until they're frozen. "A story for another time, Jack."

"But I just—"

"Jack."

"It's—"

" _No_." Castiel says sharply. Jack flinches back. The seraph's eyes close for a moment, regret edging on his features. "I apologize. I'm still exhausted and I think it's making me unsociable."

Joking. He's trying to _joke?_

All Jack did was ask a _question._

"You should get back to bed," Jack suggests. Castiel nods and gets up to his feet. He teeters a moment, eyes squishing shut like he's afraid he'll forget which way it up if he doesn't. He shuffles back toward the bed and collapses onto it, releasing himself into the mattress like he hopes it will swallow him. Jack frowns, feeling torn between fear and anger.

Sam is laying flat on his back, utterly boneless, shallow breathing the only indication he's not a corpse. The bandages have been removed from his eyes. The eyelids are whole. No ugly split skin attempts to let eyeballs slip out. No blood. No tracks of red leaking down his cheeks to his chin.

Jack stares at him, trying to burn this image into his head to replace the blood-soaked one. Sam is fine. _Sam is fine._ Castiel is going to be okay. He just needs more sleep. It's okay. _It's okay._ He can breathe. _It's going to be fine._

But even as he continues his litany of reassurances to himself, his body won't relax.

Jack gets to his feet, glancing once at the two with tight lips before he exits the room. The door is loud behind him, and he suppresses a wince at the sound, squinting at the sudden change of lighting from dull to bright. He waits with bated breath for a moment, listening for any sounds, but there's no movement from within the room that he can hear.

Jack releases the breath.

He turns the hallway, away from the door. The length stretches out in front of him. Almost endless. A mirror image of itself. The hall, the lights, the metal plating of the floor. Jack closes his eyes, trying to orient himself.

He slips down the hall and wanders for a while. It must be night, because he doesn't see anyone. If he didn't know any better, he would say that his soul was the only one still wandering this Earth. The thought makes him feel inexplicably lonely.

Jack finds himself standing in the entryway to the map room. The stairways leading up to the exit loom above him, the useless telescope positioned pointlessly to the east. He stops short when he realizes that, unlike the halls, this room isn't empty.

There's a few of Michael's rebels gathered around the table. The ones he's more familiar with—Bobby, Percy, and Mary—are gone. Charlie sits at the end of the table, legs perched on the edge and poking at a laptop with confusion that makes his heart twist. Phones were pretty much nonexistent in Michael's world. Ten long years with no one bothering to try and maintain cell towers had guaranteed a shrinking of communication.

He knows that Charlie, the woman that Sam and Dean considered a younger sister, was a technical genius. _This_ Charlie has little if any of those skills.

There's four total. Three men Jack swears he knows the names of, but can't remember, and Charlie.

"... _seen_ him?" One of the men is asking. He's sporting a well-groomed beard and looks about thirty. His name starts with a "T", maybe an "R." "His eyes...god, that was a mess. I can't believe...he's supposed to be leading us and he gets _that_ from a vamp hunt?"

A different man, black, with tufts of white speckling his dark black hair, says flatly, "It was demons, Trent. It's not like we've ever hunted those."

It's true. Angels and demonic power didn't co-exist in Michael's world. Jack didn't see a single demon while he was there.

"They cut out his _eyes."_ Trent says. "And that angel…"

Charlie sighs, shifting some and looking up beyond the laptop. "We should have just gutted him and been done with it," she says tonelessly, "I know that Mary's defensive of it, but the thing is going to kill us given opportunity."

No one steps up in defense. Jack is frozen still, afraid of backing up, but more fearful of placing himself into the conversation. He should defend them.

"You want to deal with Winchester's wrath when he figures out you killed the thing?" The third man asks, scoffing. "He'll wring your neck. You know," he leans forward, elbows propped on the table looking like he's sharing some sort of secret, "he considers the thing to be a brother to him?"

Charlie makes a disgusted face. "It's a time bomb."

"At least the Nifihelm is cured," the black man mutters. Jack stiffens. "Kid may not realize what a gift it is that he's _normal,_ but my skin doesn't crawl every time I see him. His grace could've sucked the life out of anything."

Kind of...kind of like Castiel's. It had never occurred to Jack before that he would have had an aura like Castiel. His stomach sinks, realizing they were afraid of him.

Trent scoffs, "Sure. Obviously you haven't caught him at the right angle yet. He can try for normal, but I swear he's some sort of deformed corpse. There's something not quite right about that boy." Jack's stomach twists, his lungs yanked closed. _I'm...I'm what?_ "Y'know, I betcha a solid dollar that the Devil's kid didn't hesitate to throw Winchester and the angel into that situation. Maybe he was hoping that they'd get killed."

The third man shifts, as if considering this.

 _I...I didn't…_ Jack thinks hopelessly.

"Devil corrupts everything it touches," he agrees after a moment.

Jack feels bile rise to his throat, and staggers backwards. He nearly collapses to his knees when his calves refuse to hold his weight. He breathes out, numb from the bottom of his chin to the edges of his toes.

_Deformed corpse?_

He breathes harder, faster. His thumb knuckle pushes up against his chest, pressing against the wound. His eyes sting at the pain.  
Jack finds himself staggering inside of his room, unaware that his feet were carrying him here. He stands in the doorway for a moment, eyes raking over the familiar sights before his legs give out. He collapses in the doorway and bites harshly on a panicked hiss. Not tears. Just...just an open well inside of him. A black hole, swallowing everything down inside of the horizon point.

_There's something not quite right about that boy._

_Me. They blame me for Sam. They're right._

Jack bites on the side of his hand, relishing the surge of pain that jolts back through his nerves. This is his fault. He shouldn't have suggested that hunt in the first place. What was he thinking? Why did he think it was a good idea? Why, why, _why_ — _?_

_There's something not quite right about that boy._

000o000

Jack does his best to avoid people the following morning. He didn't really get any more sleep, and ended up curled in on himself on top of his blanket, biting at his nails and flicking desperately through YouTube recommendations in an effort to do something else than think. He finds little amusement in cat videos, despite the propaganda about them, and ends up watching a few documentaries about Egypt with a perky older man narrating.

Eventually, some time after eight AM his stomach reminds him forcefully that he hasn't eaten anything since the fast food joint they stopped at on the way to the motel in Colorado, and Jack feels like he's spine is being gnawed on slowly from hunger.

Annoyed, but afraid, Jack hobbles to his unsteady feet and ducks bloody hands inside of his jacket's pockets. Yet another thing his powers were good for: hiding evidence of his panic.

Jack listens to the door for movement outside before he slips into the hall. He makes his way towards the kitchen barely breathing, and is relieved that he only sees Mary and Sam inside. If he times it right, he can slip in and out without them getting a word in.

Except, they aren't eating. Evidence of food consumed _is_ there, with Mary having a cup set out in front of her, and Sam picked at toast on a plate, but he can't wait until they've both put a bite into their mouths and go in and out. There's a butter knife sitting unused beside a bottle of raspberry jam.

Sam is slumped into a chair, leaning heavily against both the table and wall he's seated next to. Mary is across from him, her expression the only one he can see from the doorway. Blank, yet concerned and frustrated.

Where is Castiel? Shouldn't he be here? ...Is he still sleeping?

"Jack," Mary invites as she spies him lingering. Her mouth draws up into a thin, watery smile. "Is everything okay?"

Sam shifts some, turning his head a fraction to spot him. And—"You shaved." Jack says, voice somewhat toneless. The rugged beard is missing, replaced with more familiar scruff. Mary's lips tighten, and Sam's mouth presses together. His hands clench. They were shaking.

Too much for him to have done anything but scrape open skin. Jack glances again at Mary. Oh.

"There was a lot of blood in it," Mary explains when Sam doesn't, "it was just easier to remove it than try and untangle the knots."

_I should have been there and helped. Instead I ran off._

Jack slinks closer to the table, drawn as though attached to some sort of magnet. Jack stops in front of the table, and Sam looks up at him at last. Hazel eyes hidden in shadows, but whole and unharmed. "Are you okay?" Jack asks softly.

Sam gives him something that was probably supposed to be a reassuring smile, and ends as a grimace. His voice is quiet and slow, as if he has to think about what he's saying, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. You're looking a lot better. Cas?"

"Yeah," Jack confirms. "Where is he?"

"Sleeping," Sam answers. "He'll probably be out for…" the hunter pauses, gaze flitting, as if he can't remember what he was supposed to say, then he appends as if nothing happened, "about another day. Dean and I try to keep him from overtaxing himself like this, but." Sam sighs, and grabs his left pointer finger with his left hand twisting it slightly.

So they know. About Cas's grace, then. Does Mary?

"Are you hungry? Why don't you get something to eat," Mary suggests.

Jack lingers for a moment longer, wanting to help, but unsure how. But he's not stupid. He knows a dismissal when he hears one. Jack nods and backs away, moving toward the cabinets. His stomach twists with apprehension as he realizes that he's once again in the Bunker, eating the Bunker's food. It's always so much easier out in diners, because he knows that he can take as much as he wants to without consequences.

He really, really hopes that Sam sends someone on a grocery haul soon.

Jack finds a mostly-brown banana and a muffin that isn't too stale and quietly consumes both while Mary and Sam sit across the table from each other. Sam's head has lowered onto folded arms, but he's not breathing deep enough to have slipped into sleep. Castiel may have healed him, but he doesn't look that much better.

Jack lingers behind the counter, uncertain. _What do I do?_ He wants to yell the universe, and strain until he hears something back.

"Sam," Mary starts gently.

"Hey, um, I don't mean to interrupt anything—" Jack flicks his gaze up at the sudden voice, fighting to stay his ground with surprise. _Father?_

No.

Nick.

He hadn't heard Nick walking down the hall. _How is everyone so quiet?!_ The Bunker echoes! It's always echoed. Surely he's not _that_ restricted by his powers being gone—

Nick.

What is—?

Nick is standing in the doorway. Black shirt. Tan jacket. Jeans. Posture disheveled, one hand straying towards the lower left side of his stomach where Jack knows Dean gutted him in one side, out the other. His hair is a mess. He stands differently than Lucifer did. He walks differently, breathes, blinks, _everything_. But all Jack can see is his father standing in front of him, blade in hand, slicing at his throat, fingers rough as they patch the skin together.

"—but Castiel is asking for—" Nick doesn't get any further than that. Sam's hand shoots out and wraps around the knife settled on the table. He scrambles out of the chair in a blur of movement, grabbing a fistful of Nick's shirt and slamming him forcefully against the doorway, blade pressed against his throat.

"Sam!" He hears himself and Mary cry out at the same time. _What the_ — _!?_

Nick makes a strangled sound, eyes wide. His feet shift across the ground, trying to keep himself from being impaled.

Sam is panting, hands trembling. "No," he whispers.

What…?

Mary is on her feet, approaching Sam as if trying to sneak up on a skittish wolf. Jack has rounded the counter, but has no idea what he plans on doing.

"Sam, man," Nick's voice is careful, but only seems to agitate him further. Sam slams him against the wall again. Mary reaches out and her fingers brush against his bicep. Sam roughly shoves her back. Mary stumbles hard onto her elbows, and Jack can only stare, watching as Sam hisses something. _What is wrong with him? Why_ does he keep doing this? It's like he's slipping between reality and some sort of...other place. Jack doesn't know enough about him to say where.

Jack doesn't _know._

They need Castiel. Or Dean. And while he's longing for it, Kelly would be marvelous. Jack feels his breathing whisper out of him, unsure how to approach, but knowing that he has to stop this.

"What the hell is going on—?" Bobby starts to demand from the hall. There's a weapon in his hand. And a few other of Michael's rebels behind them. An audience. Jack's teeth press together, but Sam doesn't seem to care. "Winchester!" Bobby barks, "What the hell are you—?"

Sam pushes back on Nick's chest cavity, and the man hisses out a sharp, "Shut it!"

Sam twitches, like he wants to fling himself back from the man. His hand back enough that the knife almost goes vertical from the shaking. For a brief, heartstopping moment, Jack catches the edge of his reflection. The world seems to collapse in on itself, time having lost meaning. The image is branded into the inside of his eyelids. Skin peeling back from eyes, eyes a haunting yellow rimmed with red, holes in the skin around his mouth, skin a ghastly white. The edge of decrypt wings hanging off his shoulders, bent awkwardly.

_He looks like a rotting corpse._

_(There's something not quite right about that boy.)_

And Jack. Jack just— _can't._ The thought of Sam holding that knife, holding that _reflection,_ disgusts and horrifies him. The panic bubbles out of him in a shout, "Sam! _Drop it!"_ Sam jerks back from Nick, but he's still _holding the knife._ "DROP IT!"

Sam's wild eyes flick to him, hazel wide and hunted. There is no recognition. Not from either of them. Jack doesn't know who's staring back at him. Sam lifts the weapon out toward Jack, body shuddering with such intensity it's a miracle he's upright. Nick shifts forward a little, rubbing at his sternum.

"Sam, let it go." His voice is barely audible. Almost as if he didn't expect it to help.

Sam drops the weapon like it burned him, jumping at the clattering sound, and backs away, looking between all of them, his gaze landing on Nick over and over again, as if he expects him to do something. His hip smacks against the table and he hisses, looking down at the piece of furniture. Then the floor.

Jack doesn't know what it is. The pain of the table, or some sort of secret message engraved on the metal plating of the floor, but Sam's posture deflates suddenly. "Oh, god," he whispers.

Mary gets slowly to her feet, body braced as though she doesn't know whether to defend or attack. "Sam." Mary says softly.

Sam's head lifts, and he looks at Nick through messy brown strands. His face still flinches back minutely when their eyes meet, but there's clarity there. "Nick, I—I...sorry. I don't. I don't know what I…"

Sam's eyes skirt over Jack, jaw gritting, and Mary steps in front of him. She says something low enough that Jack can't make much out, and he nods. She doesn't touch him, but guides him from the room, past the other hunters, disappearing from Jack's view.

Jack breathes in and out, somewhere between panicked and utterly numb. _I wish Dean was here,_ he thinks with force, longing, and pain. _Dean would know how to help. I can't do anything. I can't_ DO _anything._

"What the hell?" Bobby says loudly, once Sam is from earshot. " _What the hell!?"_

"I don't know." Someone else, it sounds like Trent, says.

"No one bothered to mention that he's _insane?"_ Bobby demands, throwing his hands out.

"He's not…" Jack finds himself whispering in protest.

Bobby scoffs.

Nick rubs at his sternum harder, looking a little pale, and _laughs_. As if he understands what's going on perfectly. But there's something almost pained in his eyes when he looks at the knife Sam was holding. Longing and disgust. He strides across the room and picks up the cultry, holding it balanced perfectly in his right hand.

Nick looks at the weapon. "I guess that answers that question," he says to himself softly, as if there was some sort of debate he just won.

"...W-what?" Jack manages to get out.

Nick looks up at him. For a moment, there's his father, proud and preening, looking down at him, promising everything. And then it's swallowed up in the hopelessness that is this mortal man. His eyes cackle, almost as if delighted. He points the weapon at Jack, lips splitting into a disbelieving laugh, "Are you serious? You don't _know?"_

"Know what?" Jack asks. Somewhere distant, somewhere that actually _cares,_ he realizes these are the most words he's spoken with Nick.

Nick's smile keeps growing, splitting, hoarse and hollow. "You... _you…"_ he looks down at the weapon, staring at his reflection. His jaw tightens and his eyes flit away. "No," he says, suddenly more serious, back to staring at that knife, "he wouldn't talk, would he? Never really was Sammy's forte."

_Sammy?_

"What...what are you…? I don't understand," Jack says in frustration. "What are you _talking_ about!"

Nick's head tips, "Oh, kid," he sighs, "what I would give for your ignorance."

 _No. You wouldn't!_ He wants to scream. _You have no idea how it is to have lived with these people for almost a year and know NOTHING more about them than you did at day one. I am living with strangers. Strangers too afraid to talk to me because there is something wrong with me. You don't want my ignorance. What_ I _would give for your knowledge._

"Tell me." Jack hisses, frustration spilling from him, " _Tell me!"_

Nick's jaw bunches. He moves like him. Lucifer. They're the same, but different. "You don't...you don't know that Sam and Lucifer spent almost eighteen centuries together? In the Cage? Jack, _how_ do you not…?"

Jack feels the color drain from his face. What? Eighteen...his father and Sam...but...that doesn't. _What?_ And he feels sick, because it makes sense. Of course it makes sense. Sam and Lucifer moving around each other in that camp. Sam not even bothering to fight Lucifer on who should stab who. Enochian. But. _But._

It also doesn't.

Because.

It just. _Doesn't._

_(Why would no one bring this up when telling him he couldn't trust his father?)_

He doesn't understand. _He doesn't understand._

Nick must read something off his face. His expression smooths into something like sympathy. "I wouldn't feel bad about it, Sam doesn't like to talk about it." And here, there is a bitter sort of anger. Something Jack is too frustrated to decipher. He can't...he can't be in this room. With these people and they're staring.

He wants to keep asking, because Nick has given him more information than anyone has, but he just... _can't._

Jack storms past Nick, past the rebels, down the hall, wheezing for air that isn't recycled. Energy pumps through him, attacking his veins. He needs to move. He needs to _run._ Jack moves for the Bunker's exit.

He practically flies up the steps in his haste to reach the top, throwing open the door and breathing in the humid air of Kansas.

Jack starts running. Step after step, dirt, dry grass and rocks smashed beneath his feet. He runs until his lungs are screaming, until his body aches for relief. But he still doesn't stop. Because at least he understands running. At least _this_ makes sense. This didn't lie to him. This didn't omit information.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: We'll be positive and say Feb. sometime. :)

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/iaiunitas/)   
> 


End file.
